The Devil's Tears
by elusivesilvercrystal
Summary: After the Department of Mysteries debacle, Hermione is struggling to recover from Dolohov's curse and the effects it has on her person-and her magic. She survives initially with quick thinking and after with the help of the Potions Master. But she wants more than survival. She wants to live for something... and what was there better to live for than repaying a debt? HG/SS. SlowBurn
1. The Curse

**A/N: I never introduced this story. Well! Here goes:**

 **Summary:** _After the Department of Mysteries debacle, Hermione is struggling to recover from Dolohov's curse and the effects it has on her person-and her magic. She survives initially with quick thinking and after with the help of the Potions Master. But she wants more than survival. She wants to live for something... and what was there better to live for than repaying a debt? HG/SS._

 **In terms of other pairings, I honestly haven't really decided. I tend to lean towards HP/GW or DM/GW... if you're looking for a particular ship beyond HG/SS and you review frequently, let me know what you want. This story follows events of OotP and is A/U, in a sense. I haven't posted any fanfiction in ten years... but I'm open to constructive criticism.**

 **Above all else: Thank you, Jo, for everything. Here's to you!**

* * *

Chapter One  
The Curse

Hermione Granger was a disgrace to her house.

At least, that was what she was thinking to herself as she clung tightly to the arm of her best friend, Harry Potter, as they and Neville Longbottom contemplated the options before them. They could hide… or run.

It was simple fight or flight response, of course, to freeze for the barest of moments as one's head and body struggled to analyze the best options for survival. At the current moment, she was facing an onslaught of ruthless maniacs eager to please their master: an even more ruthless megalomaniac. They wanted what they had and they were willing to torture, maim, and kill them all to get it.

Any _true_ Gryffindor would have been in their element, or so Hermione had learned, after five years of adventures at the side of Harry Potter. He couldn't explain the magical theory behind the simplest of spells, but put him in a life-or-death situation and he could conjure the brightest, most breath-taking Patronus or the fiercest, truest stunner. Hermione, however, was not very good at life-or-death, and she definitely was not feeling very Gryffindor at the moment. In fact, she felt as if she were standing at the edge of the Astronomy Tower in her first year again—her mind was at a total standstill, devoid of thought or logic, numb except to the fear that was throbbing in every pore of her being at the sight of the hard, unmalleable ground hundreds, thousands of feet below.

Harry—brave Harry—was quick on his feet, in the true fashion of a Gryffindor, and had managed to put distance between them and their tormentors using instinct and luck. Hermione had followed his lead as quickly as she could while trying not to suffocate on her fear. In the heat of the moment as they fled in a shower of falling prophecies, she lost track of Ron, Ginny, and Luna.

Despair began to tug at her conscience, halting her breathing—images of redheads being suffocated and bound, a blonde girl being cursed to her knees—before someone yanked her back to reality.

Harry was tugging on her arm—leading her through a door and then down to duck under a desk. Hermione stumbled and gasped, then felt the familiar flow of intelligence spark as she realized she had just alerted intruders to their location. Two black-hooded, white-masked figures turned towards their direction, waving light-tipped wands as they stalked closer. Her insides quelled as she began to contemplate what they would have to do to escape now… She, Harry, and Neville had run and now had hid, but both choices had led to detection.

How many Death Eaters were waiting for them at every corner of the Department? Her mind raced as she tried to seek out the answer—only to be distracted by the jittering in her hands and the wetness at the nape of her neck from sweat.

Her mind was screeching at her now to do something, anything.

 _Think_ , _Hermione!_

 _"Stupefy!"_

Harry had chosen action—they would keep running. He dragged her and Neville along with him, naturally, out from their cover and towards the looming door—their escape. Hermione could practically feel the adrenaline running through Harry's veins, turning his blood hot to protect him from the fear that was turning hers cold. Neville stumbled, but lifted his wand in tandem with Harry's as they backed towards the door. The muscles of her belly clenched when she realized that she had not offensively brandished her own, and was a small distance in front of them both, defenseless.

She lifted her wand, her mouth only _half-open—"Avada…"—her_ body began to react, but nowhere near quickly enough. Her feet argued with her shoulders on whether to fall or jump, her tongue and lips struggled to decide to whisper or shout. She felt Harry gasp – _"Kedavra!"_

The sickly green spell did not hit its mark—her heart—but rather spiraled off to the right as the wand-arm of the man was sent wildly. Green light zipped inches away, and landed against the wall at her back.

The gurgling sound of agitation that came from the man would echo in her head for minutes afterwards. Before the sickly green light had even descended over them, he had turned his head and growled. His wand was lifted and another curse was at his lips. Harry was disoriented and was gathering his own, as he had dove for the man wholeheartedly. Hermione's own hand began to curl tightly over her wand, though the words she wanted did not grace her lips.

 _So much for being a Gryffindor_ , she wailed inwardly.

"E-Expelliarmus!"

Despite his stuttering, the spell was spoken with force—too much force. Neville proved himself a surer lion than herself, and disarmed both Harry and the man, Rabastan Lestrange. He kicked at Harry, who bore the blow with as much grace as possible, clutching the prophecy to his chest while simultaneously reaching for his dangling wand and wincing. Neville yanked his wand down excitedly, sending both of his captured weapons scattering to the floor, rather than allowing them to sail neatly into his hands.

Hermione felt her blood heat—Harry had just thoughtlessly thrown himself in the direction of a killing curse for her. Neville had reacted to protect him as if it were his second nature to do so. She, his best friend, was standing there like an idiot, letting her fear take hold of her rather than using it as a weapon.

What was she doing, standing there like an idiot? She should be _acting_.

Her wand hummed in her hand—a familiar beacon of strength and familiarity. She remembered the first time she had ever held it. When the vine wood shifted from cold to warm, her heart had clenched and her lips quivered with a gasp that was half-surprise and half-relief. With her parents and McGonagall watching, she had lifted the wood as if she had been born to do it—and she had been born to it, after all.

All the doubt she had ever felt melted away when that wand—her wand—sang a cacophony of sparks that hit the ceiling and spilled around her in a shower of glory she would never forget. Although she hid behind her knowledge, nothing could ever compare to the feeling of magic flowing through her veins and spouting from her wand in choruses of sound and light.

 _Sing for me_ , she willed as she spoke firmly, her wrist straight as she jutted her arm forward, " _Stupefy_!"

There was no time to watch the man slump forward. Her red spell had hit its mark soundly and surely. As she jerked along with Neville for the door, she saw the jar fall and hit their enemy over the head. It made a large, dull shattering sound that echoed through the chamber. He jerked and shouted, but it was drowned into a strange, high-pitched wail, that of a child. Harry was pulling her onward as the Death Eater's head began to shrink and grow in size, Neville quick behind, towards the door through the next chamber to leave him to his fate.

Her senses were finally erupting—magic was throbbing in her hand and she could feel her heart beat in tandem with it. _Fear and magic_ , the weapons of a born Gryffindor witch.

Her hair stood on end as they rushed into the Time Chamber, alerting her that there was something, or someone, waiting…

…but it was too late.

" _Impedimenta_!"

Once more, Hermione was suspended, her feet locked into place on the floor. Her mind, her greatest weapon, however, was alive now, thrumming with energy.

Help was coming. Professor Snape was sending them help. There was no doubt in her heart that he would send for the Order to meet them here, to save them. She wondered if he knew they were here, if he had suspected they would go as far as they had gone. She _had_ pleaded they think it through. But that was in the past…

Now, she needed to focus on the now. They just need to survive a little longer—they needed to fight, then run, and then they needed to hide.

The pair of reapers' wands lowered as they observed their prizes. Whatever words they spoke were muffled to Hermione, save their names… Dolohov and Jugson. They were proud. They deserved this after all they had spent in Azkaban. They deserved a good torture, and the glory that would be brought for having caught the Potter brat and obtained the Prophecy.

She was able to recover rather quickly, to the surprise of the first, who immediately made a large gasp, as if they were going to shout for help.

" _Silencio_!" She crowed, snapping her wand to and fro. The spell was effective—the man waved his arms as he shouted a spell, but no sound was heard. His partner had lifted his wand and was aiming it at her. Harry, too, had broken free, and his spell was quicker. One reaper fell hard to the floor like a fallen trunk, his arms and legs snapped at his sides, unable to shout for help or retaliate.

Hermione had been hit by spells before. She was a witch, after all, and this was the nature of wizardry, to cast and be casted upon. She had practiced dueling with Harry and Dumbledore's Army and felt and read about all kinds of offensive spells—jinxes that stung, hexes that burned, curses that ached for hours afterwards. But this spell…

She didn't scream, or shout. Her only response was a tight gasp as her body curled inward in shock. For an instance, it felt like a thousand needles were piercing a line of skin from her shoulder bone to her hip. And then, it burned cold, like when wet fingers became stuck to ice.

Hermione fumbled to the floor. Her fingers clutched at her shirt, as if peeling at the fabric would relieve her of the irritating feeling that ran from her shoulder to her hip. There was no blood, though she could not tell through the haze of pain that had consumed her, though she would rather it be bloody than hurt so oddly as it did.

Sounds reached her ears, but she could not process the array of voices, as her body began to feel like not her own. The pain—the cold, heartless pain was ebbing as her consciousness began to spill into blackness.

Beyond her crunched, trembling body, Neville Longbottom's wand was snapped and his nose was crushed under the fists of the man who had savagely cursed Hermione Granger. Harry Potter's voice could be heard, shouting incoherently.

There was commotion—the red light of a stunner. Shelves were sent falling around her, like meteorites slamming the earth's surface, making small earthquakes around her. The vibrations were enough to revive her. She blinked awake, and there were lights drifting above her, wandering stars that burned her eyes to look at. She whimpered as a wave of nausea began to replace the pain and her brain spun wildly. She reached out, searchingly, for the comfort of her wand. She ached for its warmth—for the melody of protection it could weave in her soul.

There was no comfort, however, only emptiness. Her fingertips scraped hard, cold ground, and squeezed desperately when her body began to grow numb and foreign.

"We have to go!" Somebody shouted.

 _No, leave me, let me die, leave me_ … she felt her body being lifted and terror began to mix with the frost. No words could be found as her mind was desperately trying to cope with the pain—sending her into a state of dulled thought. It surged and peaked, leaving her once again breathless and desperate. The spots where she was touched squealed and revolted. Her chest tightened as her breathing became shallow.

She had always enjoyed the cold. Now…

 _Some say the world will end in fire,_

 _Some say in ice._

"Hold on, Hermione, hold on. Help's coming. We're going to make it out. Stay with me."

 _From what I've tasted of desire_

 _I hold with those who favor fire._

Hermione felt her body tensing, her mind slipping. All feeling had gone to her fingertips and toes and her head was extremely heavy.

 _But if it had to perish twice,_

 _I think I know enough of hate_

Blackness beckoned. It was a far better fate than the surging waves of nausea and pain, the chilling cold she had once associated with fear and now beckoned with relief. Her brain was willing her to let go, and as much as she struggled, she was powerless to it.

 _To say that for destruction ice_

Neville's rough breathing and Harry's sharp instructions slipped away as Hermione's thoughts faded to nothing.

 _Is also great_

 _And would suffice.  
_

* * *

"Fucking Potter."

The halls reverberated the sound of his swearing. As it often did in times like these, the dulcet timbres of his voice had grown coarse and unrefined, reflecting the careless dialect of his Northern heritage. Although no one was there to hear it, the frustrations he felt were only soured further as he was reminded of a part of himself he had labored to change for the better of twenty-five years.

Severus' night had very quickly gone from unpleasant to dire, thanks to the machinations of the schools' resident celebrity. He had seen for himself that the dog was alive, much to his own displeasure—and sought out the Headmaster as soon as he was able to without consequence. By the time this work was done, he had headed briskly towards the Forbidden Forest to complete the unpleasant task of retrieving the two students who had so eagerly delved within. He had hoped with the guidance of Miss Granger that Potter might survive the dangers within and find a semblance of reason. In the best case scenario, he would have been incapacitated and thus unable to go sniffing at the trail that the Dark Lord had very blatantly set before him.

But his wishes—as usual—were denied. The wards were screeching at him the second he stepped onto the grounds. The deed was far past done—six students had left Hogwarts without looking back…not that any of them had a sensible bone in their bodies to think deeply about the consequences of their actions before performing them.

To make matters worse, the High Inquisitor, froggy little cunt that she was, was currently being tossed around by the centaurs and was undoubtedly going to seek recourse afterwards. McGonagall was in recovery at St. Mungo's, although he was slightly relieved as he was not currently being heckled incessantly. Dumbledore was orchestrating the rescue mission that should not have been needed in the first place, and was not technically permitted on the grounds. That left him to deal with Umbridge's displeasing shrieks—and to defend Hogwarts, a job he had performed dutifully for decades, although it gave him very little pleasure.

Severus Snape was not the first that any of the castle's young wards, save Slytherin House, would look to first when the world would begin to fall apart. Currently, however, he was the best they had.

No one was awake at this hour, save a few of the more restless portraits. He swept past them as if they were not there, ignoring the whispers and peeking eyes that trailed after him. A few hopped from their frames in curiosity, wondering where the Potions Master was headed with such purpose. They were used to seeing the stalking figure of Severus Snape late at night, but tonight his stride was the one of a man with direction, rather than the wandering of an insomniac. It took a handful of minutes for him to reach the Hospital Wing from the Entrance Hall, and by the time he arrived a dozen characters had crammed themselves into the frame of St. Mungo's mother.

He swept into the portrait-less Wing with a smirk in their direction.

Madam Poppy Pomfrey glared outward at him from through the cracked door that led into her adjoining rooms. She had emerged expecting a weepy first year or desperate fifth or seventh year having a nightmare over exams and found herself face to face with the tall, dark Head of Slytherin House.

When she saw Severus, however, her expression softened slightly. Suddenly, he felt like a young boy again, sneaking into the Hospital Wing to steal bandages, being caught by the nurse. Even when he lied and said he jinxed himself, she didn't punish him, but played along, tending to his wounds and sending him off rather than forcing him to stay. She knew what it meant to be a Slytherin—you played your part, and silently if you were smart.

"Severus, what is it?" There was weariness in her voice. She was looking him up and down with eyes that were more crinkled than he remembered and were critically searching for injury.

Her sympathy, however, was undeserved. He had made the choices that brought him to the brinks of death and no longer considered himself worthy of her small affections. It was a small punishment, to deny her concern, but he bore it for the sake of his sanity.

"I wish to waste as little of my personal time here, as possible, Madam," he spoke with an impatient scowl. With a wave of his hand, he Conjured an array of potions and strode past her. He had no idea what to expect, or prepare for, thus the stock was large and sprawled over the entire space of counter.

Poppy was not one to fret or indulge in questioning…anyone who worked under Albus Dumbledore for very long was used to being kept at least partially in the dark. Although she dealt with most of the aftermath, the Hogwarts mediwitch was the type of woman who preferred to stay mostly in the dark in the goings on of the war. Perhaps this was how she could still stomach to stand him, even after knowing what and who he was.

"How many?" she asked briskly with a narrowing of her eyes at his back. Without much effort, she began to turn down beds, waving her wand at the cabinets at the far end of the Hospital Wing for bandages and the like.

Severus had no idea, though his stomach began to turn as he calculated possible casualties. Not only had Potter snuck off to the Ministry of Magic, he had taken five other students with him. Weasley and Miss Granger, naturally, would follow, but the other three were not quite so used to the sickeningly heroic antics of the Golden Trio. He had known where their loyalties would take them, but not that they would take them as far as they had.

Ginny Weasley was understandable, considering her family's predilections for heroics and a previous brush with death at the personal hand of the Dark Lord. He couldn't imagine Longbottom or Miss Lovegood facing off against Goyle (who was as worthless as his son), let alone any of the three Lestranges…

His left arm began to ache, but it compared nothing to the ill will he suddenly felt in his gut at the vision of crumpled bodies of children at the heel of Bella. Rage tickled the surface, though he quelled it as it came with a slight intake of breath akin to a sigh of frustration. He was an angry man—that would never change. But at the moment, his anger would do him no good. As much as he wanted to strangle the stupidity out of Potter for falling for the Dark Lord's smoke and mirrors, it would have to wait for another night. Specifically, for a night the twit was actually in front of him, and the old coot was not there to restrain him.

Severus' silence was enough to send Madam Pomfrey to busy herself with preparing for the worst—organizing a vast amount of Pepper-Up Potion and Calming Draught, several jars of bruise balm and burn salve, as well as small amounts of Skele-Gro and Blood-Replenishing Potion. Severus carefully procured a trio of vials from his pocket and placed them at the forefront of the others.

Pomfrey glanced at them as she passed by him and froze. She had only ever seen a potion of this particular color—a milky, grayish blue, topped with foamy violet bubbles—while recently treating Severus. In particular, when treating Severus after painfully eventful visits with the man whose name the Wizarding World could not speak without shuddering.

She didn't look in his direction any longer. He loomed at the window, glaring over the grounds. Although he had expressed distaste in spending more time than needed in the Hospital Wing, he made no motion to leave.

* * *

When Hermione woke, all she heard was screaming.

The pain in her chest was violent, but it was not overly cumbersome. Her belly felt hot—filled with a warmth that she could not place, but one that she had recognized before. In her mind's eye, she ached for the silence of the curse as it struck her, and she felt her bones rattle in response. A weight was pressing against her forehead, behind her eyes, making her feel disoriented and only half-herself. Boiling amber bubbled lazily in her veins, making the world around her feel heavy and hot.

Although it hurt to do so, she stretched her hand out, reaching for the one comfort she had… her wand was not there, however. It was gone. Someone had taken it, or they had left it. The heat in her belly surged with her effort to find it as the screams mixed with laughter.

After a moment, wails and chortles drifted into silence. With her surroundings somewhat silent, she could think again. The thought sickened her that she could belittle someone's pain like that, but she was glad for the quiet. It was hard enough trying to think through the warm, disorienting fog that her body was enveloped in.

 _What is going on?_ She wondered to herself. Both her world and the world around her felt as if they had been flipped upside down. She was nowhere recognizable, all stone and echoed voices, and she was forcing sweat out from her eyes with furious blinks. Her throat was full and scratchy. Had someone turned up the heat?

 _No_ , she reasoned. The only cold she felt—barely through the haze of heat she was expelling— was at the stone at her fingertips and a slashing over her chest.

"Now, wittle Potter, what do you say?" The sound of the voice was enough to make Hermione's stomach twist once more. Whatever magic was healing her revolted at the shrill, manic tone. The pool of honey was growing larger, expanding to her torso to surround the chill in her lungs. It was a strange feeling, one she usually associated with her palm—a surge of power, a flicker of her very essence of being.

 _Was this magic?_ She pondered.

Her wand was nowhere to be found, but there was no denying the familiar warmth rapidly spreading in her chest. It was one and the same.

… _At the center of the Magical Nervous System is the magical core—the pool on which a wizard stores and retrieves his magic. Even some of the most perceptive of wizards are unable to describe the essence of their magic—those who can describe it as a weight or pressure, most often in the chest or belly…_

"Stop it!" Harry spat. Harry… where was he?

Hermione shifted slightly. The movement of her shoulders put pressure on her back. The floor was hard and cold beneath her, though it came as no relief to her. Rather it was odd, having flaring flesh pressed to icy stone.

She could hear someone muttering incessantly nearby.

"Pretty brain, pretty brain…ha ha ha, HA…"

"Stop it!" The woman mimicked, "Baby Potter doesn't want me to hurt his wittle fwend."

"Brain…ha ha…"

"Stop—Stop. Here!" Harry wasn't hesitant, "I'll give it to you."

Hermione jolted her head up, though every inch of her revolted at the thought. Her body was being pinched inward, the focus at her chest. Her skin was slick with sweat—it dripped from her hair, down her neck, droplets that slid and practically sizzled from the heat of her flesh. At least at her chest, she felt numbed—but that too, felt wrong. There was an absence of pain, which suggested something far worse was at hand.

She managed to twist onto her belly, even as she heard Lucius Malfoy praising Harry for his wise choice. Ron, feet away, muttered louder—it was obvious he was afflicted by a spell or something. Blonde hair was sprawled in a fan over the floor to his left. Luna had been hurt. Ginny was not much farther away. She had landed on her side and curled into a ball.

They were both so motionless it made her heart quiver with doubt.

Bellatrix—it could only be her—giggled sickeningly when Harry let out another strangled plea. As if to emphasize his efforts, he lifted his hand. The orb was clutched in it so tightly she wondered why it hadn't shattered.

"No…" she croaked as she crumpled back onto her elbows. She was sprawled over the stone now, her belly hard against the floor. Something was terribly, terribly wrong in her chest. The warmth of her body signaled an infection. She knew as much from her years as the child of two medically trained Muggles. There as a war going on inside her body—a war of cold and hot.

 _Some say the world will end in fire,_

 _Some say in ice._

"No, Hawwy…." Neville croaked. Hermione could hear the same shaky despair she felt in her own heart in his voice. He was on the floor, though his body was trembling violently. His breath was ragged and his voice was strained—the screams had been his, after all. Hermione could see the tightness in his jaw, and noticed fresh blood had begun to mix with the dried blood that had fallen from his nose. It was as swollen and red as his twisted nose—he had bit it in his agony.

Her eyes quickly found Harry. He was standing, Neville just out of reach, his arm outstretched towards the reaching hand of Lucius Malfoy, the orb glittering in his hand. The glow of it was sickening, like that of the Killing Curse, but blue rather than green. She crouched in horror as Harry willingly was giving it over, his grip lightening in defeat with Neville crumpled at his feet.

Several wands were trained on the broken boy, on Harry, and towards her. All masks, however, were turned towards the orb. They could not turn their attention away from it as they reveled in their singular victory.

"Harry—" she croaked, "Stop!"

His resolve was broken. His green eyes—green like grass, like frogs—tilted away from the orb and towards her, bright as his bravery. Lucius Malfoy was lifting his wand to snatch the precious Prophecy away, even as Harry began to tighten his grip around it once more.

Unfortunately for the blonde Death Eater, the Order had arrived, and in full swing.

 _"Expelliarmus!"_

The spell hit him square in the shoulder and sent his wand zooming away. The Prophecy was suspended in the air, as he had been levitating it to his palm. Harry jolted at the sound of curses and jinxes ricocheting off walls and zooming around him to hit Death Eaters, and dove for it. Some of those surrounding him fell to the floor, cold; others jerked to safety.

"You fools!" Shrieked Bellatrix Lestrange, a furious woman with sickeningly thin cheeks and knotted black hair.

The Prophecy Harry held was shattered on the ground, having slipped from his fingers at the last moment. Bellatrix's comrades cared only to defend themselves from the preemptive attack of the Order—forgetting the purpose of their mission.

The wailing of the prophecy was drowned by the commotion of the duels that ensued. Bellatrix was torn away from it herself as her cousin, Sirius Black, was quickly upon her. Harry stared in horror at the prophecy and its wispy phantom, but did not mourn for long. He grabbed Neville and began to pull him away from the thicket of duels, nearer to Hermione.

Once he was certain Neville was a safe distance away, he joined the fight.

Hermione ached for her wand. She thought she might have the courage to join Harry—or at least protect Luna, Ron, and Ginny. _Where is it_?Hot liquid shifted in her chest, like a ship that was shifting at the will of the wind.

"Protect the children!" Someone said, their thoughts aligned with her own, but no one was listening.

Remus Lupin—the speaker—had managed to defeat an opponent and was stepping towards them to take his own advice, but immediately was torn away from his intent by two Death Eaters shooting cutting curses in his path.

Hermione shuddered as she tried to push herself up again. Ron was just beyond her reach and she could grab his wand. There was enough distractions as it was, but she felt bare without one. _Why did she need it_?

She was desperate for it. Desperate for the magic. She needed the magic. She needed the wand.

"Ahh," she cried loudly, clutching at her chest. The pain was surging again, rearing against the swaying warmth of her belly that was trying to quell her back to sleep.

 _Get it together, Granger_! She told herself. Harry was fighting. Neville, too. The Order members were outnumbered. They needed her. She needed to… what could she do?

She began to crawl towards Ron, biting down on her lip and bidding the pain to secede as she hung onto the strings of bravery and righteousness. It was a vain attempt at first, but the effort was enough to make her stronger and allowed her to close the gap between them.

"Brain, brain… Pretty planets, too…Ha, ha…ha…" He was muttering, rolling back and forth, laughing. His eyes were open wide, however, staring outward and yet at nothing. His wand was sticking out of his pocket, ripe for the plucking.

The smooth, winding vine of her own wand was missed sorely as she lifted the slightly square handled wand out of Ron's pocket. His was too long, too hard, and too sharp in design. Her fingers were slick and clumsy as she held it, but the urge that had led her to it was compelling her to hold it as tightly as possible.

 _You know what to do_ , she began to think. Hermione's mind was racing. She needed the wand, but what for?

 _You've been cursed with Dark Magic. Its power was dulled because you silenced your attacker. Dark Magic requires words. To have ill intent, you must speak ill intent._

What was the nature?

 _Violet. The color of royalty…but also a color of great power. Associated with supernatural energy: mystery, conceit, and pomposity. A color of mourning. Purple, when associated with spells, suggested the spell was created with the intent to be seen and admired, or feared. To instill wonder…or dread._

The cold numbness she felt suggested the curse had anesthetic properties—although this could have been a side-effect of silence. If it was a property, then the spell was one that could be used to affect her nervous system…

She squeezed her eyes closed and sought for information. The images of books began to flash in front of her. _The Magical Body_ flew from the bookshelf into her hand.

Hermione reached for her stomach. Her palm pressed into her belly—just above her navel, where she imagined her diaphragm would be, where the burning sensation was the hottest and the firmest. She clutched the soaked fabric of her shirt and trembled, squeezing it almost as tightly as Harry had squeezed the Prophecy.

 _Some theorists suggest that Squibs suffer from overprotective magical cores in infancy or in utero. It is strange to consider that the least magical among us were perhaps those with the most magical potential. It makes sense when you consider the theory that when the body of a wizard is distressed, the core reacts to defend its master. In cases of certain extreme magical illnesses, patients have reported feeling a warm fluid-like sensation flowing in their bodies, followed by fever, disorientation, and hypersensitivity. If the magical core cannot return the wizard's body to equilibrium, it will tire itself into exhaustion or depletion, forever inhibiting or eliminating a person's use of magic, and in most cases, causing the wizard's death._

Her body—more specifically, her magical core—was fighting the curse and its adverse effects. Whatever it had been, the spell was being contained by the magic that she had found and loved, that had emerged unexpectedly and now unarguably defined her.

Her magic was expelling rapidly towards the cold slash of flesh where the curse had crossed her chest—leaving its secure stores to act in her defense. Although she knew it to be vain, she tried to will it to return. But it was not under her control. If she were a little older, a little more familiar with it, she could have possibly achieved the task. But once again, she fell short.

From the weakness she felt at the edges of her consciousness, Hermione was not naïve enough to think that her magic was winning its war with the curse. Although she had been dubbed the Smartest Witch of her age, she was not stupid enough to associate intelligence with power. Perhaps if she had Harry's talent she could hope that her core alone would be able to combat the spell, but she was not Harry Potter. She was just Hermione.

"Are you a witch or aren't you?"

Brown eyes snapped open. Her world spun wildly as she did so, and she swayed. When the world was right once more, she looked to Ron, whom she had sworn had spoken lucidly. He was still rocking on the floor, muttering. He wasn't even facing her direction anymore.

She lifted the foreign wand and stared at the wood through hazy, wavering vision. It was dull in color, dull like straw. Her own was pale and slightly green. She tried to imagine the wand as her own…tried to will it to be hers.

… _or aren't you?_

Colors blurred and sounds were dulled. The battles were waging around her. Someone was approaching—friend, or foe, she was not sure.

 _With the Severing Charm, cutting or tearing objects is a simple matter of wand control. The spell can be quite precise in skilled hands, and the Severing Charm is widely used in a variety of wizarding trades. Useful as it is, this charm should be practiced with caution, as a careless swipe of the wand can cause injury._

 _Variations of the Severing Charm include the Dissection Charm, which commands an even larger amount of control to the user. While it requires a greater need for skill, focus, and magic, the Dissection Charm is a one of many necessary spells to be learned in professions dealing with the healing arts or in the conventional preparation of several Potions ingredients._

She had no choice.

 _Are you a witch…_

She took the wand in both hands and turned it onto herself. A blunt tip of wood was pressed into her shoulder when she spoke the word. There was a moment wasted on willing the strange combination of willow and unicorn hair to respond to her, before she spoke with great conviction.

… _or aren't you?_

" _Diffindo Certo_!"

Her voice did not waiver, even though she felt the tip of the wand make a sharp, shallow cut beneath the jutting bone. The smell of copper mixed with the heavy scent of sweat as she pressed the wand, and the spell, deeper and down, dragging it along the approximate slash of the curse.

Her vision flickered, slightly, as she had called upon her magic in its most vulnerable moments to cast the necessary Dissection Charm. It took great effort to keep her hands wrapped tightly around the handle of the wand—the sharpness of it was cutting her soft palm—and her eyes open at the same time. As the magic began to spill from her, through her pores and now the cut, the numb feeling was erased.

She must have screamed, because someone was heading for her. She ignored their shouts—"Hermione! Hermione—Stop!"

Blood dripped down her shirt, over her palm. It would stain Ron's wand. She felt guilt then, and hesitated.

 _Don't stop_. _You can't stop._

Her magic did not know how to react to this new injury. It was enough, however, to halt its assault on the curse. Her breath heaved as she gathered the courage to pull the wand along, over her ribs, and down to curl over her hip.

Hermione would never have described pain as sweet, but the pain she felt came with a warped sense of relief. What little magic she had saved was slipping back into her center, pulsing away from the shallow cut back into the safe haven within her ribs. This wound was painful—gods, did it sting. Her blood was dripping wildly, now, down her shirt and jeans, to the floor beneath her. The gaping flesh shivered at the sensation of meeting cold air, its outer protection having been meticulously sliced apart.

She preferred it to the numbness. At least now, she felt alive.

She dropped the wand and fell forward onto her palms, and laughed. It was strangled, but it was a laugh nonetheless.

Her stomach felt achingly empty, depleted of a weight she had never noticed, but was always there. Her head was light, filled with a euphoria that stemmed both from her pain and her lack of strength.

At last exhausted, she curled over the ground. Someone was grabbing her shoulders, and she could not push them away. They smelt musky—like sweat and fear, like a dog that had been running through a forest. A familiar voice called her name again, but she barely acknowledged it. Gentle hands lifted her chin, shaking her face as if to keep her awake…

The last thought she had was whether the others were feeling as tired as she was.

* * *

Severus felt the air tighten just before the fireplace flared.

Nymphadora Tonks stepped out of the flames. There was a harrowed look in her eyes, which were currently a deep shade of gray. They were the eyes shared by his godson, Draco, and Tonks' mother Andromeda.

"We need—", her breath was shallow and she gulped for air. She made a sweep of the room with her gray eyes only after Madam Pomfrey was already beside her, offering a Calming Drought.

"What are the injuries?" Madame Pomfrey asked. Her voice was strong and unwavering.

The young auror was sporting a cut over her eyebrow and a bruise along her cheek, and the nurse made to clean her face with a sweep of her wand. The soot cleared, leaving her skin paler than a moon ray. After gulping the potion down, she was able to speak more clearly. Something, however, lingered at the edges of her voice—grief.

Severus glared away when she began to speak again. The emotion in her voice told him that something had happened, "Two deaths…A Death Eater and…"

 _You've failed. You've failed. The boy is dead._

Severus' fingernails scraped the stone of the window as his fists clenched. He could see the visions in his mind's eye: dead Order members, dead children. Dead Potter.

His own grief returned, reminding him of another death, the death of a woman with the same shining, emerald eyes. The pain was worse than the aching, burning in his arm, and was followed by a familiar, dense ball of sadness clouding his throat. No one could know. No one would see. But he felt it sharply and all at once.

"…an Order member."

And then it was gone. His mask was in place when he turned away from surveying the grounds to listen closely to Tonks' choppy report. Relief sagged his shoulders. _The Boy-Who-Lived-Once-Again_. He was the last person anyone would expect to feel relieved at the notion. It was both nauseating and uplifting.

"A broken ankle. A broken nose. Two have been stunned. Two cases of Cruciatus. Longbottom and Potter both."

Pomfrey made a strangled sound. Severus felt fury—cold and dark. His fist tightened its grip on the sill of the window once more. He was leaning towards the glass, his long body rounded in a gloomy, brooding stance. His sharp beak of a nose was nearly touching the pane and his eyes were black and faraway.

"Two more complicated cases."

"What kind of complicated?"

Tonks didn't break down, though Severus wondered if she would had she not already swallowed the Calming Draught. Her breathing was evening out and she was no longer fretting. Her skin was still pale and her eyes were searching the nurse's desperately when he glanced at her once more, "Ron Weasley will need close mental evaluation. He's been hit with a rather complicated Confundus, maybe—a variation of that or something similar. I'm not sure. That place is full of…" she trailed off and shivered.

"And the other?" Pomfrey led Tonks to the bed, but the auror would not sit. She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and straightened her shoulders.

"Hermione Granger is…" Tonks' demeanor shifted to despair once more. Her gray eyes were glazing over, and her lips were quivering, "She's…she's…"

The Floo erupted once more, drowning her words. The werewolf practically ran out of it. In his arms was a small, curled body topped with matted hair.

Snape felt his gut tighten—her small hands were dangling towards the ground, swaying limp and lifeless. They looked as if they had been dipped in blood. Droplets of it fell to the ground in tiny splatters, trailing behind the steps of the werewolf. His eyes did not leave her milky, scarlet-tipped fingers as Lupin straightened and adjusted the dead weight in his arms before continuing. A fuzzy head lolled over his shoulder, dangling towards the ground. Her hair was drenched—not in blood, thankfully, but sweat.

Through the haze of the girl's matted, wild hair, Lupin's face could be seen. It was blotchy—red with either tears or exhaustion, or a combination of them. Beads of moisture were still glistening at his graying hairline and he had a welt over his chin.

"She's losing blood," Remus began to explain to Pomfrey. He headed for the nearest bed and gently laid the limp form of the fifth year Gryffindor over it. His feet shuffled clumsily as he stepped back, allowing the mediwitch to take her rightful place at the side of the girl. Severus noted the blood that was left on his clothes—staining the dull brown of his robes and the white of his shirt.

Hermione was unresponsive as Pomfrey spoke to her. She spoke to Lupin instead as she readied her work.

"What happened?"

Lupin struggled to find an explanation, "She…she's been magically exhausted. When we arrived, she was already incapacitated. She—she…." His eyes, pale blue, began to water again. The emotion was enough for Severus to begin to sneer again. _Hold yourself together, wolf._

The nurse's wand hovered parallel to the girl as she began to diagnose the nature of the injury that had rendered her unconscious.

"She cut herself!" Tonks erupted with a wail, "Sliced herself down the middle."

Severus and Pomfrey glanced towards the auror with equal expressions of disbelief.

" _What_?" Severus hissed towards Tonks.

Pomfrey did not stop working. She had summoned Blood-Replenishing Potions and immediately proceeded to slip them into the girl's mouth. The girl was a sight to see—her skin was so slick with sweat she glittered in the light of the candles. It was not that which worried him, but the dark color that was pooling around her collarbone.

"Severus," Pomfrey spoke without hesitation. Her wand was responsive, but from this angle he could not see the diagnostic clearly.

He was there in four sweeping steps, robes billowing behind him. Tonks had not sat as she had been instructed to by the nurse several times. Lupin hovered helplessly at the end of the girl's bed, trying to find the words to explain the situation more clearly. Severus could feel his gaze upon him for a moment as he approached and he knew the wolf was wondering: _Is it so bad that we need the help of his kind?_

It was. The tip of Pomfrey's wand, pointed at the chest of the girl, was mostly black, with a surrounding edge of burning violet.

Snape felt his mask slip into place as he realized what this meant for the girl. On the outside, he was emotionless and calm. Within, he wanted to vomit. He could smell it on her—the sickeningly sweet scent of damp iron that was Dark Magic. It was a smell he had once associated with great power. Now, he associated it with death and despair, and the blood-soaked hands of Hermione Granger.

"The Dark Arts," he voiced aloud.

Pomfrey had summoned a variety of potions and left them levitating as she tore open the girls' shirt from where it had been cut, revealing a chest and plain, white bra stained red. Severus focused on the potions that swirled around Pomfrey as she washed most of the blood away, returning Miss Granger's skin to a pale ivory. The cut was clearer now, and nearly coincided with the slashing, purple mark that traveled from the ball of her shoulder over the valley of her breastbone.

The purple line was a shadow produced by the diagnostic magic, a figment created to allow him a deeper understanding of her infliction. Like most curses of its ilk, the affliction's intent was not to physically scar, but to cause pain. The spell had been cast and was used to trigger a reaction; probably quickly, and with much agony. It was similar to Cruciatus, in a way...

"Severus, I need to close the cut."

" _Wait_." It came out as a hiss. He grabbed the nurse's arm at the wrist to emphasize his demand. She strained against his touch, alerting him to his roughness. He met her eyes with a piercing gaze and did not release her, "Not yet."

"Now is _not_ the time to play with potions, Professor Snape!" Her voice was taut. She was afraid of him.

Severus felt the twitch of irritation, but managed to restrain it. Traces of it were left in the poisonous tone of his voice, "Don't be an idiot, _Madam_. Lupin claims she cut herself— _why_?"

Pomfrey struggled to produce an answer. Severus smugly released her hand and watched as she dropped her wand towards the girl, but did not say the spell to seal her skin back together. He said nothing as she mulled the thoughts running through her mind over once, and then twice. When her gray-green eyes met his, they were squinted in irritation.

He didn't say anything, just stared at her smugly.

" _Well?_ " Lupin interrupted impatiently.

Severus plucked the smallest vial without instruction from Pomfrey and promptly slipped it to the wet lips of the girl. For good measure, he gave her one of the potions he had reserved for his own encounters with Cruciatus—if anything, it would help her with her pain, should there be any.

His fingers felt the softness of her skin as he messaged her throat, forcing her to drink the milky blue potion. She gurgled and it erupted from her mouth slightly. Violet blended with blue dribbled down her chin as she convulsed suddenly. It was the only movement she had shown since arriving, but it was enough to make him relax, if only slightly.

She was still afterward, but her chest had begun to rise and fall more noticeably.

"What was the nature of the curse?" Pomfrey began to ask, her wandtip tracing the purple trail revealed by her spell, setting to heal any damage done within the girl's body. Hermione's skin, however, resisted—Pomfrey's wrist jerked violently, forcing her magic away. The purple line vanished into a wisp of smoke that rose and dispersed.

Severus had procured his own wand and began to set to work conjuring a need and thick thread. There was no time to waste. If he was to spare her life—her magic—he would need to be precise.

As he waved his dark wand, his fingers traced the skin of Miss Granger's forehead. The initial despair Severus had felt hours before, when he had imagined the crumpled bodies of his students, was settling in his throat. He kept the fingers of his free hand on Miss Granger's elbow, a comfortable place that wasn't fleshy and vulnerable, while the back of his palm rested against the flat plane of her brow. She was hot to the touch, as he had suspected.

His fingers remained on her skin as he called forth the pool of magic, settled low in his chest, to call to her own. There was a flicker, of course, in her belly that responded to his own song. It was no more of a flurry of whistles compared to trumpets, but it was there. _Not all is lost…_

She had known what was happening. Of all the students for this to have happened, she was the most capable of escaping certain death—or worse, magical impotence.

"It doesn't matter what the curse's intent was," he replied, almost giddily, in a Severus Snape sort of way.

He removed his hands from her skin to roll up his sleeves, then lifted his wand to magically thread the medical needle he had Transfigured, along with a companion tool. Remus and Tonks stared at the strange contraptions, thinking Snape was going to mend the girl's shirt. Pomfrey recognized it for what it was and stared at it with open contempt.

"Doesn't matter?" The nurse protested, "It caused her to do this—what more will it…"

"Miss Granger has finally earned the nauseating commendation of my colleagues," the Potions Master explained with a smirk, "The smartest witch of her age, indeed."

"Severus, quit darting around the subject. If you are going to do anything with _my_ patient—"

He ignored the witch's shriek of protest as he grabbed the needle and used it to pierce the girl's skin.

His dark eyes were trained on her face, unblinking, as he began to sew the flesh closed. Her skin was now sickeningly pale, making the light dusting of once unnoticed freckles over her dainty nose blatant. The darkness of her brow, darker from the moisture, contrasted both with her pallor and her surprisingly delicate bone structure. She had a stubborn chin, as well, and a mouth that many would consider thin, which tightened further in discomfort. She gave a soft moan of despair, then relaxed as Pomfrey slipped a potion to her lips.

Pomfrey was slightly hypnotized by Severus hands, which worked as elegantly and steadily as they did when he was brewing. It was a rare sight, to watch a Potions' Master brew; the children took their instructor's talents for granted. And now, here he was, effortlessly performing a manual Muggle task with the same fluidity and grace he commanded at a cauldron.

The mediwitch stared at Severus for a moment—absorbing the vision of him hovering at the side of the girl, his sharp mouth frowning slightly as he concentrated. He had always been prone to darker expressions, even when he was most relaxed. He was unnaturally tall and thus was forced to hunch over her, sending a curtain of black hair over half his face. Black eyes shone like beetles from his sunken eyes, unblinking as they surveyed his student's injury, wielding the tongs and stitching her skin back together.

He touched her only lightly when he had to—tips of his fingers over the bone of her collar. There was gentleness there, gentleness one would not attribute to a man such as he was. Pomfrey noted the care he took to make sure her modesty was upheld; casting a wordless, wandless spell to keep the tattered fabric of her shirt from slipping, or the fabric of her pants from slipping too far down her hips.

She had known he was a dark man, and the aura around him was evidence as such. But the intent, the will to save the girl with grace and humility, his careful touch and gaze, was enough to wash away any doubt she had ever had that he was not a good man, beneath all the harsh exterior.

The Floo flared, and Pomfrey made the executive decision to leave the girl's health in the capable hands of the Potions Master. He could do more for her than she could ever hope to.

Weasley was able to walk, at least. He bumbled through, escorted by Mad-Eye Moody, all gangly arms and dreamy eyes and jumbled words. The auror pulled him roughly to a bed, and secured him to it with a huff. She treated his abrasions first and tried not to lose her temper at his strange antics, and tried to direct the elder, paranoid auror away from interrupting Severus' work with his biting comments and suspicion.

The charm Weasley was under would thankfully fade with time, but they could not risk him falling asleep while under it. She cast a Wakefulness spell and gave him Pepper-Up, then made certain he could not harm himself lest the spell take a nasty turn. In order to allow Severus some peace to do his own healing, she cast a silencing spell and closed the curtain that surrounded Hermione Granger. Weasley's sudden shouts or rantings and the rising discussions of the present Order members were unheard.

Both Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood were unconscious, though Miss Weasley was in slightly better shape. Although she had a broken ankle, the Lovegood girl had suffered not a single stunner, but several. The two were in the best shape out of them all, regardless, and were assisted in a handful of minutes by the medi-witch. They were relatively stable, and left to rest indefinitely while the others were treated.

Longbottom, on the other hand, was suffering tremors in the bed beside Hermione Granger. Tonks and Lupin had supported him after he stumbled through the Floo at the side of Mundungus Fletcher, who promptly and conveniently disappeared. The boy was speaking lucidly, but Pomfrey knew from experience that he was suffering both mental trauma and physical discomfort.

"How is 'M-m-mione?" His teeth were chattering and his body was drenched in sweat. Lupin had pulled Tonks away from him and was forcing her to sit on a bed, allowing Pomfrey the space to assess the damage.

"I said sit back, Mr. Lonbottom!" Pomfrey insisted.

"She's okay, r-r-r-right?" Neville muttered, ignoring the nurse. He was pushing himself up, trying to lean towards the curtain, as if heading closer would allow him to see through it more clearly.

Neville frowned darkly when the nurse forced him back again, glaring away from her to stare at the curtain broodingly.

"I expected this kind of childish behavior from some of your housemates, Mr. Longbottom, not from you." The nurse placed her wand against his wrist and watched her watch. She then turned his chin to face her, evaluating the cuts that had marred his cheek. He had scratched his face, she realized sadly.

"I'm f-f-fine," Neville insisted, although his body was evidently protesting his words. His hand had come upwards to hide the scratches, stubby fingers curling over the once-pudgy cheeks.

She waved a wand in front of his eyes, checking his pupils and cognitive function. His brain was fully intact. Her heart felt heavy as she realized that he was luckier than his parents in that aspect.

 _They were nearly as young as he was_ , she remembered. A handful of years more, and he would be the same age as they were when they suffered at the hand of Bellatrix Lestrange.

"How many times?" she inquired as she rubbed salve into his cheek.

Neville was quiet then, distracted from his worry of his house mate. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. The long jaw she had recognized as his father's grew very tight.

"Three," he answered when she did not relent.

"Consecutively?" Pomfrey inquired.

"M-m-mostly," he answered, "I'm f-fine. I should have—"

"No, Mr. Longbottom, you are _not_ fine," Pomfrey snapped, "You are going to sit back and relax, lest you want to risk further injury to your person. You are no help to Miss Granger right now, and will be no help in the future unless you allow your body to heal. The Cruciatus Curse can-" she felt her heart clench as she halted her words.

"I know the effects of the Cruciatus," he said sharply. His eyes widened when he realized his tone, and he sunk backwards in defeat. She did not chastise him, but silently continued to bandage his cheek. There were muscles pulled in his arms and his back was strained from twisting, his wrist, too.

The boy was silenced from then on, lost in thought. His eyes drifted towards the screen as Pomfrey checked him for abrasions and cuts to treat, staring at it as if it were the stars above and he was seeking answers for his crimes.

Pomfrey was preparing the potions' regiments when she heard Severus calling for her. She entered the bed confined by the shielding curtain. The dark-haired man was standing, now, a tall thin length of robes.

"Will you tell me what happened?" Pomfrey asked.

He didn't smirk at her, or scowl smugly at all. There were ghosts in his eyes for the barest of moments when they met hers—shadows of memories or feelings. They were once more fathomless pools of black with a blink of her own.

"Miss Granger was hit with a curse—its intent was pain and, perhaps, death for an ambitious caster. It is Dark in nature, but also…less deliberate. Whatever it was, it lacked the conviction to serve its purpose, and would have served as a minor irritant for several weeks, with the proper treatments. The question posed, then, was how did Granger come to cut herself, if the curse was not psychologically manipulative in nature?"

Pomfrey did not have an answer, only symptoms. _Sweat_. _Warm skin. Exhaustion._

When the answer came, she was dumbfounded.

"How…"

Severus Snape glanced at Hermione with the same expression of wonder that she felt. The girl had not only recognized what was happening to her, but had acted to stop it. It was not often that the Potions Master was impressed by a student—but she saw the pride in the slackness of his jaw as he gazed upon her still bloodied, but stable body.

"Her magic, when it is replenished, will repel the Muggle treatment. I've laid out instructions for her potions. The road ahead is uncertain," Snape said, the shadows returning to his face and gaze.

Pomfrey would agree. It could take weeks…months, even, for the girl to recover from coming that close to losing her magic. She would need an intense therapy regimen.

"I must report to the Headmaster."

And with that he was gone. Pomfrey took a deep breath, and set back to work, although her brain did not stop wondering about the true intent of Severus Snape.


	2. Pride and Prejudice

**Author's Note: I might have posted this too hastily. I've done my best to fix all the mistakes (grammatical/structural, mostly) I caught re-reading it. Enjoy!**

 **P. S. It's 99.9999% (which, for a math major, basically means 100%) Jo! Thank her for gifting us with this magical world we so love to manipulate.**

* * *

Chapter Two  
Pride and Prejudice

All of those assigned to the Department had been captured, save the wretched Bellatrix. The news would not reach the public until the Prophet released the story, but word was sent by Kingsley to Dumbledore, who relayed the information to Severus after their debriefing in the early hours before his Friday lessons.

Of course, Severus was not surprised when he was summoned a half a day later. The burning sensation erupted in his Mark as he was heading for the Great Hall from the dungeons at dinner. He hadn't had much of an appetite in the first place, but any vestiges of hunger vanished as he diverted his direction for the grounds to Apparate away. He went first to Spinner's End, to gather his Death Eater garb, then headed for the destination that had sprouted in his head in unison with the ache in his forearm.

The summons proceeded in much the way he had suspected it would. He arrived to a dense gathering of mostly unfamiliar faces (ranks were growing, despite the denial of the ministry that You-Know-Who had indeed returned). After sneering his way through the crowd, he was received with the scrutinizing glares of a brooding Lord Voldemort and a sour-faced Bellatrix. The rest of his brothers hung in the background, unimportant witnesses, as he was greeted tersely with tilts of the head by the higher ranking members.

Despite her good spirits, Severus noted the haggard state of Madam Lestrange's was not as if Bellatrix was a polite witch... Of the three Black sisters, she had always been the least...proper. She had been vocally unwilling to submit to the etiquette and breeding of her sisters, proving her distaste by wearing her hair wildly and donning revealing robes, even at a young age and speaking crassly despite her company. Narcissa, of course, was a prim example of pureblood breeding, and although she was equally as icy-hearted as Bellatrix, she admonished the witch's tattered appearance and wavering manners at school. Andromeda, with all the sensibilities that had rebelled against her ancient family's prejudices, had had a pristine reputation in her time at Hogwarts. She wouldn't be caught dead out in public without perfectly coiled hair and straight, modest robes, even during Quidditch matches. Her betrayal had come as a shock to her family and her House, considering how well she carried herself and how well she had been matched.

Bellatrix, the imperfect, but very-much prejudiced Black, had not surprised anyone when she was tossed into Azkaban. She was always throwing her lot in with the princes of Slytherin, bullying and boasting with the best of them. Rather than rutting her way to the top like any other ambitious feminine snake, however, she turned her male enemies against each other with cruelty. She was not one to submit to anyone. He had heard rumors of her vicious and various relationships (her first victims) while at Hogwarts, and the punishments that would follow anyone who crossed into her territory.

Due to her heritage the witch could not inherit anything unless she had proven herself through pureblood marriage. Eventually, after evading the choices made for her by her parents (usually with violence) and having her wild oats sown, she chose her own husband. It was a smart enough choice (smarter than her sister, Andromeda's, at least).

Rodolphus had a twisted streak that pleased his bride, but it was malleability that called to the manipulative witch. She would not miss him in the slightest while he was rotting in Azkaban. It was only due to his usefulness that he hadn't met a darker fate years ago. The elder Lestrange might have had the better fate now, however, considering Bellatrix's current appearance.

Despite her tendency to look strained (rather crazy, actually), she looked more worn down than usual. It was not hard to miss the bruises that lined her neck and face, or the blackened burn over her exposed collarbone. The robes she wore were tattered and frayed, and hung loosely from her slight frame. Her twitches were harder to catch, but did not go unnoticed by the keen-eyed Potions Master.

The Death Eater witch coyly pressed her wand to her lips, suppressing a giggle behind the black wood as Severus took a knee before the Dark Lord. _Mad_ _cow_ , he thought. She was no doubt fresh from being tortured herself, and was twittering with excitement at the anticipation that he would submit to the same flavor of misery.

 _She always did enjoy anyone's pain…perhaps even her own._

He averted his attention away from the witch when the Dark Lord's gaze became heavy on the top of his bowed head. Suppressing a sneer in her direction, he chose to grit his teeth towards the dirty, mottled floor. The dark hair that plagued him fell limply in front of his face, hiding his eyes. There was a shallowness to his breath that hitched as he took a gasp of air through his nose and exhaled slowly.

"Severussssss…." It was an instruction to lift his gaze.

He had gathered most of his stray thoughts behind the carefully constructed dungeons of his mind, and so he obediently he lifted his chin and met the gaze of his master.

His mouth was lipless, his nose shapeless, his eyes lidless. There was nothing about the Dark Lord that could categorize him as a normal human being. He was taller than Severus (a feat in its own) by a head and a half, and thinner. Even his humanoid body seemed too long, too sharp to be natural, although Severus knew his previous body to have been about the same height. His reptilian red-eyes and flattened face were simply the most noticeable atrocities to his humanity. Severus, no pretty picture himself, was more disgusted by his mannerisms than his characteristics. The alabaster-skinned monster stood on two legs and had two arms, but his movements were more slithers than steps and his tongue always lingered into a hiss.

The robes he wore were elegantly woven, if plain, black in color and lacking any adornment save a snake around his collar. Even that was hardly visible, considering it was wrought with thread of the same empty shade of black. They shrouded his frail, elongated body, and glided with him as he slinked forward from his throne, an ancient-looking winged-back chair trimmed in silver.

"My lord—"

The yew wand was lazily held between the tips of the bony fingers, but it pointed true towards Severus when the dark wizard spoke the curse, " _Crucio_."

Severus felt his jaw tighten and his teeth clamp over his tongue painfully when his arms were flung behind his back. The white-hot feeling of pain surged through his veins to his fingertips, sending his thoughts reeling towards oblivion. It was blissfully brief and thus he did not even have to call upon his occlusion to protect himself.

Another fool would be have been gracious, but for someone as experienced in audiences with the Dark Lord as he was, Severus knew this was only a sign that there would be much discomfort to follow. Brevity would lead way to prolonged agony soon enough.

"Forgive me," Severus croaked automatically.

He kept his head bowed, but tried to maintain a stiff, noble posture—the Dark Lord, as much as he loved being worshipped, did not particularly like the grovelers. Those who wept and pleaded and kissed at his feet (like Pettigrew, whose absence was noted by Severus with an inward sneer), might receive small favors, but it was the men like Severus, the men who maintained a healthy sense of dignity, that had the ear of the dark lord when they needed it most.

It was little consolation for Severus to consider himself an advisor to the terrorist. But it was a necessary vice in the twisted game of double-cross he had been playing, and so he kept face even as his instincts warred for him to lift his wand and defend himself. Such insolence could mean his life… or Potter's.

 _Or an innocent's._

For some reason, Miss Granger's face swam in his mind. It was pale, stunned into a stasis of discomfort. Her pink lips were parted and her dark brows were lowered derisively in irritation over slightly squeezed-shut eyes. Her chest rose and fell steadily, despite her pain. There was also a twinge of color growing beneath the elusive dusting of freckles at her cheeks.

He had returned to the Hospital Wing after breakfast to provide an array of potions for her and the Weasley twat. The redheaded fool had glared at him, muttering about poisons and bats. He had half a mind to crush the potions he would need beneath his boots, but chose instead to toss his onto his bed and then carefully lay the ones for Miss Granger along the table at her shoulder.

She would need them for when she would undoubtedly wake.

 _Not so undoubtedly_ , he reminded himself, _the storm has not passed, yet_.

He assured himself that she would wake. But even then, whatever followed her regeneration from unconsciousness was sure to be taxing, at the very best.

When the dirty ground came into focus once more, he remembered his setting. He shoved the heavy door closed in his mind and Miss Granger's predicament gave way to his own.

"I am perturbed, my ssson," the dark lord began, "Our laborssss have been crushed once again by the effortssssss of the old fool'ssss band of conservatorsss. What could have possssibly alerted the Order of our strategiesss?"

"My lord, I would be indebted with the opportunity to explain myself," Severus stated calmly.

"Always hasty with excuses, aren't you, Severus?" Bellatrix preened at him, her eyes widening wildly at what she perceived as insolence, "Our lord will not hear of your _Muggle_ lies, tonight—"

"Quiet, Bellatrix," the dark lord hissed to her, "It remainssss to be ssseen whether you have earned your place at my ssside. Don't mistake my tolerance of your presence as forgivenessssss."

"My lord," Bellatrix snapped to attention, but her eyes did not leave where they had fixed upon Severus. She shriveled from the words of the dark lord and feigned subduction, but within, Severus knew she burned with hatred and spite. Her eyes darkened significantly when he met her gaze out of the corner of his own.

"Who alerted the Order, Severussss?" His voice was not as charming as it had once been. The melodious, commanding voice that had swayed Severus in his youth with promises of glory and power was replaced with an unsettling hiss-like falsetto the sent shivers down his spine. Sometimes, he would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold-sweat, that voice in his ear, promising him over and over he would spare the woman he loved.

And then he would leave her crumpled body at his boots and laugh.

Severus' shields were hovering at attention, protecting his thoughts from being snatched from him. He pushed down the bile that threatened at his gullet as he carefully memorized the pattern of grime that marred the floor.

"I am guilty of this," Severus admitted. His eyes were flat, shameless, as they met his master's.

The Dark Lord's face twisted slightly in an expression of hardly contained anger. He waved a brisk hand towards the waiting witch. Bellatrix snapped like a dog released from her leash—with a crack of her wand, she had him on his back. Her _Cruciatus_ lasted far longer than the Dark Lord's had, and her fervor for it was far greater.

Severus felt his nerves erupt once more. The world disappeared, replaced by shrieking pain in every inch of his limbs.

When she released him, she gave him a swift stinging curse for good measure, right across the bridge of his nose.

The dark lord did not comment on this, but smirked lightly when the Potions Master growled in the woman's direction.

Having gone unpunished for her actions, the witch twirled around Severus, excited by his display of rebellion. Her wand was clutched to her chest as if it were a babe and she were trying to suffocate it, "I told you it was him, my lord! I told you he was a traitor. Mudblooded ligger—"

The Dark Lord sent her skidding across the ground. She whimpered and wiped at the blood that had sprouted from her lip in the scuffle. There was a light in her eyes, however, when she looked up at her master that suggested she was not as upset with the actions as one might have expected. Severus was sick to realize that she was slightly aroused by the power he had displayed.

She lapped the blood up with a lick of her lips and returned to her feet, hunched in a bow in the direction of the wizard she had affronted.

"My lord," Severus was supporting himself on his palms now, wavering in an attempt to lift himself back to his knees. _You're getting too old for this shite._ The stone beneath was cold and musty and his black eyes focused on the dirt as he garnered control over his breath and the stray thoughts that would very well betray him one day, "I can show you, if you so desire."

"That is not neccccccesssssary," the Dark Lord hissed. He was leaning backwards into his makeshift throne, his white head pressed against the wingback so that he was looking down his….nose at Severus. Red shone through the slits of his eyes, pondering the Potions Master with subdued anger, "Explain yourself. I will take your word tonight."

 _He's weakened_ , Severus realized, _Surely not from a duel with Dumbledore…_ It was more likely that he had been drained from having so brutally forced himself upon Potter's mind. Severus was eager to divulge this information to the headmaster—it was perhaps a tactless bit of information, considering the old fool would not fathom letting Potter act as bait to weaken his enemy, but interesting nonetheless.

Instead of lingering on the thought, he returned his attention to playing the part of manipulator. A mask he wore very well slipped into place.

Severus did not lift his head as he was being perfunctorily belligerent, "I do not mean to excuse my punishments, but I was not _privy_ to the details of the plot to steal the Prophecy. Had I been—"

Bellatrix interrupted him with a sharp shriek, " _Liar!_ You _knew_ what was going to transpire that night! You _knew_ what we were after."

"I was not aware of the specifics of the Plan, Bellatrix," Severus did lift his chin then, to glare at her defiantly, "As you so vehemently spoke out against my involvement, I was kept conveniently in the dark. Had I been more aware, perhaps I could have—"

"—Perhaps! Your efforts have spared precious baby Potter for now. When we have been rid of the old—"

The Dark Lord slammed his fist down. Both of his followers glanced away from him, and each other, much in the way that siblings would when their parents interrupted their heckling. Bellatrix looked admonished… she had nearly said something that the dark lord had not wanted her to.

Severus continued, eyes narrowed, but downward, despite wanting to filter through the witch's mind to divulge just what was being kept from him, "The headmaster would have suspected my loyalty if I had not alerted him of the boy's disappearance promptly. Potter's…friends hinted to me that Black was being held against his will in the ministry and it was only too easy to reason that they would go after him. When I displayed no sign of doing so myself, they took matters into their own hands. I could not detain them for obvious reasons—that would defeat the purpose of having gone through such _lengths_ to lure Potter away from the school. There was no time to _Obliviate_ all of the brats, and even if I had, it would be suspicious."

The Dark Lord was following along with his words, his mind trailing through Severus' to what lied within the outermost battlements. The Potions Master felt uncomfortable with any presence in his mind, and especially that of the dark lord. But his master was not as invasive as he usually was, which was slightly more bothersome to Severus. After all, it was one of the lord's faults in Legilimency—his need for others to _feel_ his presence had given Severus the ability to act as a spy and yet still protect his most private thoughts from both of his prying masters.

He continued, "Whether or not I had faith in my comrades, if even one of the wretches were able to escape, I would have been outed as the spy that I am to the Order. I had _thought_ that Potter would have been captured quickly, considering those who had been chosen for the task were amongst the best of our ranks. But there was a possibility that at least one of the six would escape due to a fluke or…misgiving. I have been instructed, repeatedly, to retain my position as spy within the Order. I was not willing to jeopardize my position in the case that my brothers failed in their task... I had every faith they could defeat a band of underaged wizards before their rescuers arrived."

Bellatrix opened her mouth to protest, but was silenced by a seething look by their lord.

"Thank you, Severuss," the Dark Lord mused, "for your honesty. Your strategy has proven necessary in the wake of… failure."

"Yes, what a pretty tale you've woven, _Sev_ ," Bellatrix exclaimed, unable to contain her fury at the praise he was being given and the scorn that was sent her way. She stepped closer to him and was now prowling around him like a vulture around a dying animal, "A tale _too_ pretty for your ugly tongue. I can smell the dishonesty from a hundred feet up, _brother._ You ran to the old fool like a mutt who fetched a bone as soon as you were able! Did you lick his slippers, Severus, before you pleaded with him to stop us from hurting the precious brat? He won't be there to protect you forever, you Mudbl—"

"BE. SILENT!" Lord Voldemort roared.

With a lifting and constriction of his hand, Bellatrix was on her knees, sputtering and reaching for her throat. The sharp-nailed fist of their master clutched at nothing, but it Bellatrix reached wildly for the collar of her robes, and scratched at her throat when that did not relieve her discomfort.

Her face was turning red when the dark lord released her with a labored sigh. She fell to the ground in a heap of knotted hair and gasps, and he put his face in his hands, pinching his nose in frustration, "Why musssst you make me punish you, my child?"

"M-master," Bellatrix wept, her voice an ugly, gasping croak. Her eyes betrayed her—she was thrilled, "My master, I am sorry."

"Silence, Bella," he reminded her in a crooning voice.

His affection was like balm to a burn for Bellatrix. She sent him a look of adoration through the involuntary tears she was wiping away.

The Dark Lord's red eyes were on Severus once more. They held the black coal eyes of his spy unwaveringly. Severus felt a flicker of the weighty, black presence he associated with his master against his inner shields. Lord Voldemort retreated without much persistence when they did not sink under the pressure. After gathering a brief survey of Severus' present thoughts, he was gone.

"There will be appropriate punishment for your actionsss, Severuss" he decided with a grim smile, "You have shown a lack of faith in the ability of your brothers to carry out my commandssss. You will bear their failure as your own."

Bellatrix's cracked lips curled so tautly that both rows of her yellowed teeth were visible. She was still breathing heavily, but it came in huffs through her flared nostrils and gritted smile. Her bulging eyes gleamed at Severus when she pulled her wand on him again.

"Lashessss," the Dark Lord instructed, without hesitation, the red rubies alight with a twisted gleam.

Severus felt the blood drain from his face. He was reminded briefly of his a vision of his Muggle father, citing back his crimes as he decided which would earn him a whipping with his belt and which would earn him a whipping with the cord of the iron.

Severus much preferred the belt to the cord. Although the buckle would hit dully and hard every so often, the whip of the cord stung so crisply it would bring tears to his eyes whenever his father brought down his arm.

"Of course, my lord," he answered numbly. Inside, he withered. He could deal with the _Crcuiatus,_ but was not prepared for the humiliation of the whip.

 _He knows_ , Severus wailed internally, _he knows you're lying._ _He's going to make you suffer for it, you insipid fool._

Rather than display his discomfort, he lifted himself to his knees, no longer fully bowed but stiff, and tugged his arms out of the sleeves of his Death Eater cloak.

As he did so, his vision flashed to a different whipping...

" _Proverbs, 16: 5. Everyone who is arrogant in heart is an abomination to the Lord; be assured, he will not go unpunished!" His father roared,, "Obadiah 1:3. The pride of your heart has deceived you, you who live in the clefts of the rock, in your lofty dwelling, who say in your heart, 'Who will bring me down to the ground?'"_

 _Tobias Snape's breath always smelt like liquor. Whisky was his favorite, but it was not uncommon to find him swayed by the unsubtle stench of grog. That night, the aroma of sweet bourbon came off him in waves that stung his son's overly sensitive nose._

 _Severus flinched when his father leaned in so close their noses were touching. He often felt tiny before his tall, overbearing frame, and hated the dark, squinting eyes that scrutinized him at every second of every day. He hated when his father would touch him, and it was nearly as bad when he would breathe on him._

 _But he felt even tinier when his father snatched his fumbling hands from where they hovered at the waist of his pants and shoved them to his feet, before grabbing his shoulder and turning him forcefully around so that Severus was bent with his backside was exposed._

 _His mother wailed in the corner when her husband then brought down the cord, tightly coiled around his fists, so that the tail of it whipped the backside of his pale, skinny son._

 _She would speak out for him, trying to explain for him as he was hit, only to be brought down halfway through with a single backhanded slap over her narrow cheeks. Although she had once fought harder, at the time Severus was twelve, she had lost much of her spirit. She slunk silently to the ground as her husband continued in his drunken ranting._

" _Proverbs, 6:16 to 6:19. There are six things the Lord hates, seven that are detestable to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies and a person who stirs up conflict in the community."_

 _Her boy was prideful. He boasted of his achievements at school when he had returned, proudly displaying his perfect marks. While at school, he had forgotten. How could he have forgotten?_

 _Careless pillock, he wailed inwardly at himself._

 _Careless, still_ , the Potions Master reminded himself.

Severus sneered into the ground as he began at the buttons of the plain robes he had donned beneath the cloak. He avoided the gaze of the dark lord at all costs, unwilling to discover if the wizard was watching him with contempt or excitement.

He was not surprised that he had embodied all of the traits that detested the Lord. To spite his father, the great Hypocrite, and his mother, the weak Enabler.

 _To prove them wrong and for what?_

...To be whipped by another man and call him 'Lord'. His father was chortling in his grave at the irony.

Severus spared a glance at the wizard. Rather than rise from his languid position, the white husk of a man motioned for Bellatrix to take his place. Severus' shoulders slacked even as his stomach plummetted.

 _He would not leave his punishment to Bellatrix if you had been discovered... but she would be crueler._

The dark witch was more than happy to act in their master's stead as the giver of Severus' punishment. The Potions Master grunted when Bellatrix sent him sprawling, spread-eagled and belly down, across the floor. His shirt was Vanished from his body with a flick of her wand. Severus felt panic settle as the cold air met his back… murmurs abounded in the room, whispers of shock and disgust. There were new faces, faces that had not seen the mangled mess of his back before. Those who had looked on with sneers.

His hands and ankles were bound to the ground. Severus didn't care. He hated that witch; hated that she knew one of his few weaknesses. She had exposed him purposefully.

"Is that necessary, Bellatrix?" He sneered loudly. She found pleasure in his protest, however. She wouldn't silence him—that would take away from the fun of hearing him scream.

She leaned forward, touching her fingers along his back. Severus flinched. The skin was so tender there, hypersensitive to even the lightest of touches. He wanted to recoil from her clammy fingertips, but she continued to stroke his back from the nape of his neck to the top of his trousers. The witch flicked her wand so that his head was forced down. His cheek was pressed so hard into the stone that his skin had split over the jutting bone. The trousers were removed soon after, but he could care less about his sexual modesty.

The worst of him was already on display.

"Proud little Severus, all your scars exposed before me. You boast of your loyalty, but you ask for forgiveness before asking for permission. Tut, tut. Will it hurt terribly, wittle Sev? Your old wounds splitting to new?"

" _Proverbs, 21: 4. Haughty eyes and a proud heart, the lamp of the wicked, are sin." Tobias ripped his son's hair and pulled his head back so that his son was forced to look at him from a painful angle. The boy defiantly glared backward and did not break his father's gaze, even as he was tossed to the ground, "You boast of your wickedness as if it is a means for your reward. Do you expect the Lord to reward you for your debauchery? Will your haughty eyes and proud heart serve you well when the Lord abandons you to hell, Tobias?"_

"Severus," he muttered. No one heard him say it, although he registered the guffawing of the crowd.

The whip cracked against his skin. Severus croaked in agony, his fierce pain betraying him even as he bit down hard on his tongue. Bellatrix sang a note of triumph at the sound.

" _What boy? What did you say?"_

" _My name is Severus!"_

" _You have no name, boy, but the name of your father! Your name is Tobias!" The drunken man abandoned the cord for his fists._

"Poor, poor Severus. Such an ugly scar," she pouted, "Let me make it prettier for you, brother!"

The cursed whip made contact with his back once more.

Severus flinched. The pain made his head swim. His father's drunken stench was gone, replaced by the smell of iron and the sound of sloshing water.

 _His skin was standing on end. He was quivering. The gathering of men was around him now, surrounding him so that he could not escape. Despite himself, despite the hatred they glared into him, he held his shoulders high. His chin was lifted and he carefully orchestrated a face he hoped was, if anything, indifferent. At best, he hoped to be intimidating._

 _But that was hard to achieve, when they were closing in around him like a pack of wolves._

" _Half-blood," one of them spat._

 _"Repent," another chanted._

 _"Repent," three more chimed._

 _"Repent," the last vowed. Severus was grabbed._

 _By the time he was bound, he had changed his mind about being willing. He didn't want to repent. He didn't deserve this torture. He had shown his worth on merit. He had earned perfect NEWTs. The dark lord had summoned him, had asked him to join the cause at his side… Why did he have to prove himself further beyond his mastery of magic? For his Muggle father?_

 _He struggled against the bonds. The sound of water should have been comforting, but for Severus, it made him want to vomit. They had Cursed it. The lot of them. It was still boiling from the magic they had cast, from the ritual, and the color of it was stained with the sickening black-red that Severus had begun to detest. The blood had been spilled so methodically, without remorse, from innocents, for the purpose of washing him clean of his impurity._

The oldest of Voldemort's ranks were more than willing to forgive Severus, a talented, powerful young wizard, for his tainted blood... if he subjected himself to an especially cruel penance, suggested by a noble, powerful wizard with a taste for baby-killing. It was an excuse to fetch an enemy's child from his crib, and to make Severus suffer for his undeserved haughtiness.

It was a far weightier price paid than he had expected, and came in the form of water Cursed by each of the Death Eaters in a ritual so foul Severus preferred to obliterate it from his memory. He had agreed to it, eager to prove himself to them and slightly because he had been so invested that it would have meant death to turn. But in the last moments, when he began to understand the weight of his soul, he had fought it. The smell of the water—the iron of dark magic and something even more unforgiving, something that tasted like death itself—had sent him flailing and cursing against their bindings, despite knowing that it was cause enough for his death to defy the punishment. He could feel his own heart wither and blacken with hatred for them...and for himself.

The Dark Lord had sat on his throne idly, much in the same way he sat now, watching intently as his potential follower squirmed.

His brothers had held him down as they poured the water over his back, not daring to touch it themselves, letting it slosh from the silver basin to spill over him first slowly, then all at once. Even as it practically melted his skin from his body, even as the screams ripped from him relentlessly, they did not release him until every last drop had spilled from the silver cauldron.

The wounds had left the entirety of his back, some of his neck and shoulders, and parts of his torso a mottled, reddened mess. After it was healed, the veins of hardened skin replaced the once smooth skin forever, divided by valleys where the flesh had been all but scooped out.

Severus had very nearly died from the infection that followed. And even as he suffered in total agony, he suffered alone as he had for most of his life.

There was no one to soothe his broken pride and body, no one to stroke his hair and kiss him. His mother was dead, long dead, and he was alone. Not even his friends could spare him a kind word.

Lucius had graciously provided him a house-elf to watch over him and rooms within his manor to recover within, but could not do any further out of obligation to his father's friends. Narcissa had tended what she could stomach, but left the worst of it to the elf.

He wrote letters to Lily, asking her to visit him before he died, as there had been little hope those first months that he would survive. He asked for forgiveness, told her she was right about it all, that he was a fool.

She did not open his letters before returning them and that stung more than the gaping wounds. That same month, she was married. It was agony bathed in agony.

He had wanted to give into the infection that had claimed him after reading of their union in the Prophet, but his body was stronger than it should have been, than it deserved to be. He recovered within the year. He took the Dark Mark when he was well enough. It was his reward for surviving. Although he was not glad to take it, he had no other options. But he was spiteful and proud during it all. It did not take long after that for him to brew a poison that killed two of his brothers, the two who had suggested the punishment and held him down the hardest.

The Dark Lord could have killed him for his treachery. Instead, he rewarded Severus with sending him to Norwary where he earned his Mastery in little less than a year.

The whip struck once more, and Severus felt the pain of the blow in tandem with the memory of the Cursed water boiling his skin clean off from his back. The groan croaked out of his throat, half-strangled into a scream.

"Does it hurt, Severus?" Bellatrix crooned, trailing a hand over his hair, "Does it hurt like your betrayal hurts our lord?"

"Hardly," he snapped, even knowing it would earn him a worse fate. The Dark Lord would punish him further for that later.

Bellatrix cracked the whip again.

He flinched as the lash made a sickening sound against his back. She had aimed lower this time and his smoother flesh groaned in protest.

Severus barked out a muffled scream when the next made its mark, clean on the center of his back, where his spine jutted through his ruined, monstrous flesh.

As if her stint in the Ministry had not been enough to satiate her appetite for sadism, she took great care in the way she kept him in apprehension before the next lashing.

Severus thought of nothing when she finally continued, although he swore he heard a gentle thrum of whistles when a plea finally escaped his mouth.

* * *

Hermione was drifting along the surface of a dark lake. She wore a loose, strappy summer dress; it was white, pure, made of clean cotton. The lake had long since soaked it to her skin, wrapping her in a thin layer of translucent fabric.

She had not seen this lake for years. It was one from her childhood, somewhere in Wales—she and her parents had gone here during the Summer, to enjoy the sunshine and the outdoors, before she'd ever known she was a witch.

They were dentists who loved the city and theatre and take-out, but her parents would often have the desire to pretend they were woodsy and rustic. Dr. Granger, the male, liked grilling. But he burnt everything he set atop a flame, and it was no different on a grill than it was in the stove of their London home. He liked to put up the tent on his own, without the help of "his girls", even though it collapsed promptly whenever he would turn his back from it to check the directions. Dr. Granger, the female, liked to recite the scientific name of each plant she saw, but hated having dirty hands from touching them and was constantly paranoid of getting poison ivy. She also liked being in the lake, but hated not having a steady stream of purified water to rinse her skin when she emerged from lapping around her daughter for hours in the gentle waves.

Hemione didn't mind swimming, but she would have much rather been reading on the shore than sitting in the water. To appease her mother, she waded in the water, all the while frowning at the fishes that would come close to her knees and pouting. She was jealous of the grace her mother seemed to have as a swimmer that she had always lacked. Truly, she didn't care for any of it, but her parents loved her and she loved them and it was enough just being with them for her to be content.

Camping was the most tolerable at night, when they were huddled around a fire, exchanging ghost stories and roasting desserts. Eventually, their attention would be dragged towards the sky and its blanket of stars. They were an intelligent family, prone to wordy, lengthy discussions, eager to share even the silliest of musings. The stars were one of the few sights that seemed to steal the words from each of their mouths.

Hermione, especially, was breathless when faced with the endless expanse of sky, her eyes wide with wonder as they drank in every inch of it.

It made sense that she was on her back, now, looking up at the same stars (they had not changed in the years she had lived, nor would they by the time she died), feeling at peace.

It was her Muggle mother's voice she heard when she noted each of the constellations, despite the recent years spent mapping the celestial bodies as an astronomy student in a magical school. Jean knew all about Greek myths and who had put what constellation where, what their names and legends were, and when they could be seen at different times of the year. Wendell liked them well enough, but it was Jean who loved the mythologies so much that she had named her daughter for the princess of Troy. She liked it so much that she interrupted her daughter's unusual silence to describe them to her when her amber eyes trailed to the sky.

Scorpius was lingering on the horizon, just above the line of pines. Across the sky, Orion waited with his sword, forever opposite his mortal enemy.

" _Some say Orion was the son of Nepture and Euryale the Amazon Queen. He was the greatest hunter in the world, so great that he boasted of his talents to anyone who would hear him. Pride would be his downfall, however, as he claimed that he could defeat any animal foe that crossed his path. A single scorpion stung the hunter, stealing his pride away from him in death. Others say he was the beloved of the virgin goddess Artemis; when the tryst threatened her chastity, her twin, Apollo, sent the scorpion to kill him."_

" _Hmm," her father would say pensively, "Is it better to die for pride or for lust?"_

 _Her mother would smack him, "Dell!"_

 _Hermione pretended not to know what lust was and urged her mother to tell her more about Orion's lover, Artemis._

Jean Granger had reminded her to look for him by finding his belt, the Three Sisters, and Hermione named them as she saw them.

 _Alnitak_.

 _Alnilam_.

 _Mintaka_.

Her gaze trailed from the belt to the Bull that hung beneath the hunter's raised club. Taurus, with his pointed horns and glaring eye. She noted the jagged line of black at the horizon, nipping at the hooves of the beast as he postured for the back of the hunter.

She didn't remember the trees being so large and dark and ominous during her childhood, but they stood at the edge of the lake, reaching for the tail of the scorpion and the waist of the hunter like jagged teeth. They were the jaws of the earth, swallowing the sky and all its wonderful stars.

She strained her neck to look behind her. The castle lingered above her, on the cliffside, overlooking the lake and the Dark Forest.

Hermione was suddenly very aware that this was not the lake of her childhood campsite. This was the lake where she had been brought just years before, a captive held for the sport of being captured by a champion. The lake where she faintly remembered being surrounded by scaly, humanoid merpeople.

It wasn't surprising that she felt instantly frigthtened. The merpeople weren't necessarily dark creatures, but it wasn't hard to see that they hated her—their gleaming eyes spoke volumes more about their treachery than their sharp teeth and crude weapons. Whatever it was that she had done, earned or otherwise, the contempt never left their eyes as they guarded her. Even though she was supposed to be asleep, she could feel their disease at her presence and dreamt that they were waiting to eat her alive.

The pounding of her heart was heard in place of the comfortable silence, thudding hard and quick against her ribs.

With a deep breath, she began to shift to her belly, but as her feet dipped deeper into the water, she felt exposed, vulnerable, and heavy. The threat of what could be lurking a centimeter away from her submerged legs and torso had her darting wildly forward, trying to float once more. It was stupid to move so wildly in open water—she knew that. But she also knew she needed to get to the shore, out of the water.

So she was swimming, thrusting her arms through the water like her mother had taught her to so many Summers before in the lake in Wales. She swam. And swam. But nothing seemed to move. Every so often, she felt something wrap around her ankle, but it released her when she kicked harder and swam faster. She tried not to dip her head under the water, but when she eventually did, she could not close her eyes. It was black and empty and void of life.

Looking out into the black water was far worse than facing vicious merpeople that wanted to drag her under and drown her. Instinctively, she reached for her wand... but it was not there.

" _A witch without her wand is a body without a soul," she argued. She had insisted on bringing her wand with her to South France, when they were on vacation, but her mother was uncertain she would need it. She wasn't allowed to do magic outside of school anyway. But Hermione had seen firsthand what waited in the dark of the night, and she didn't want to be without it…ever. It comforted her, just knowing it was there._

" _That's not…Is that from Don Quixote?" her mother shook her head with a bemused laugh. Hermione had blushed and nodded._

" _Butchering literature for the sake of an argument," her mother had scoffed, "Where is my daughter and what have you done with her?"_

" _Actually, it's from a Wizarding book," Hermione admitted. She then shrunk, feeling out of place in her own room. It felt so unfamiliar after having spent so much time in the library of Hogwarts and the Gryffindor dorm room, "It's still me, Mum. I'm still me."_

" _I know, my love," her mother had replied wisely, "You, but not quite the same as I saw you last. It comes with growing up."_

 _Jean smiled encouragingly, "Take the wand, then; it's a part of you now, whether I like it or not."_

Hermione lifted her head above the water, gasping, but the level rose with her. As the darkness covered the top of her head once more, she realized that she would not be able to reemerge, no matter how hard she tried. She could propel herself up, with her wand, if she had it, but it had been lost…

Lost in the Department of Mysteries.

She remembered now that they had gone and been swindled into the trap laid by Lucius Malfoy. She remembered the gaping of her chest as she pulled Ron's bloody wand away from it, and the guilt at having stained it with her blood. She remembered the swell of euphoria that stemmed from pain and also, victory, from succeeding in calming the storm that had been raging for her, yet against her.

 _I remember!_ She shouted, but her voice was swallowed by the raging water.

It tasted foul—like copper, like blood. She felt sick at the thought, and squeezed her eyes shut, praying that the lake was not full of blood and unwilling to open her eyes again and realize that it was red and not black. The lake did not relent, no matter how hard she pleaded in her mind. It was swallowing her whole.

She struggled, helpless, as it surrounded her. Panic was in her throat, stealing her breath, flooding her lungs with water.

Something grabbed her. She prayed for escape, but her vision was slipping.

And then—

"Miss Granger!"

Hermione jerked awake, blinking at the change in light; the swallowing darkness had made way to dim candlelight, or perhaps the gray light of morning. The familiar silvery green eyes, framed in the lined face of the Hogwarts mediwitch, were inches away from her nose. The elder witch lifted her wand, shining a light in the her face to check the dilation of her pupils. Hermione's eyelids felt so heavy, but the light was so bright and harsh that she was forced to blink them open rapidly.

As soon as she made motions to shift into a seating position, she regretted it. Her limbs groaned in protest, leaving her feeling heavy and spent. They fell back to lethargy and she pushed her head deeper into the cushion, wishing she could be swallowed by it.

 _Smothered in cotton, rather than drowned, then._

"Don't move, Miss Granger," the nurse instructed tersely, a tad too late, "You've had an accident."

Hermione felt instantly cross at the notion. She couldn't see straight no matter how hard she tried, but she knew that what had happened was not an accident.

 _It was a bloody attack_ , she wanted to protest. It hurt too much to croak out a reply and she only managed a weak "bollocks".

The mediwitch's grave expression deepened pensively before she pulled away from Hermione. The gray-green eyes flicked to the other side of the bed. The younger witch's gaze followed (and with great effort). Once they found him, it was not difficult to place the white beard and half-moon glasses as those that belonged to the headmaster.

"Miss Granger," he greeted with a half-smile.

Hermione was surprised that he would be here. She knew he was a busy man, much too busy to pay her a visit while she was in hospital…

 _That bad, huh?_

"Professor…" she tried to finish but drifted. He nodded knowingly. Her brain had caught up with her, then, and she lifted her hand as far as it would go, a half an inch from the blanket, "Harry—"

"Everyone is fine," the headmaster encouraged. His expression did not waver from the grandfatherly one he often wore while addressing the masses of students he protected, "Harry has little more more than a few cuts and some injured pride. Your friends have fared just as well in the face of their own injuries."

The mediwitch snorted from where she hovered, waving her wand in an impressive array of diagnostics that spun or pulsed. Hermione tried to follow them, but there were so many she found it was futile. And her eyelids were so heavy, the blinking colors were blending together. They drifted graciously closed, but it didn't relieve the weight of them on her face. That and the light from the Madam's wand was burned into her brain.

"My wand…" she began to say, her fingers twitching absently for it.

"Retrieved," the headmaster assured her, although he did not procure it for her, "Mr. Longbottom admits to having used it in the stead of his own. His was snapped in the….scuffle and yours, as I take it, was not useful to you when you were unconscious."

"Oh," Hermione mulled lamely. _Oh, Neville. That had been his father's wand… it had never wanted him, however, further stumping the clumsy wizard throughout his years at Hogwarts. Still—she couldn't imagine…_

But it was worse than having simply had his wand snapped. He had been tortured by the very same woman who had stolen his parents from him. Bellatrix's cackling voice echoed in the vestiges of Hermione's mind and she felt ill at the thought of Neville having had to face her like that.

 _If only Harry had listened to me. Neville wouldn't have had to face her like that._

 _It's your fault, then. For not standing up to them. For not putting your foot down. You were so eager to be just as brave as them all... Look at where it got you? Where it got them._

Her eyes opened again, and she wondered if they reflected the remorse she was feeling. Dumbledore's face was impassively serene.

"H-How long…?"

"It's Saturday morning," the headmaster provided, "I've no doubt your friends will be here in less than an hour to check on you and Mr. Weasley." He gestured vaguely beyond the curtain, suggesting that Ron was somewhere in the wing. Hermione could faintly detect his snores.

"As if they hadn't just left a handful of hours ago," the nurse muttered from the side, "Without so much as a detention for being out of bed, skulking through my wards as if I had never laid them, as if they didn't even think I would have them set out. The nerve of those three!"

"Now, now," the headmaster waved a hand in the nurse's direction, "They've been brave in the face of great evil; a little concern for their fallen comrades is expected, Madam."

Hermione felt her insides churn, "Stupid."

"Miss Granger!" The nurse exclaimed. She waved a wand—checking the girl for head injuries, more than likely.

"Not you, sir," Hermione croaked. Even though her body was aching, the longer she stayed awake, the more she found she wanted to stay awake, "Us. Not brave… stupid."

"I daresay I disagree," the headmaster offered, though his amused smile showed he had expected the sentiment.

 _Daft old man,_ Hermione found herself thinking. She made a face of surprise— _where had that come from?_

"Miss Granger, I will let your friends relate the events you might have missed after being incapacitated," the headmaster offered, "I wanted to personally relay my condolences to you."

"Condolences?" Hermione grayed, "I thought…"

"Everyone that left this school has returned," he repeated.

 _But not everyone survived._

 _Who did they lose? ...Mr. Weasley? Lupin?_

The question was on her lips when the headmaster spoke up, "My dear, how do you feel?"

He was leading her away from the subject. Harry would tell her, then. Her curiosity was not quenched, but she was wise enough to know that pressing the matter would not serve it.

"I feel…spent," Hermione admitted, "Like I've been hit by a hippogriff."

Dumbledore's gaze was heavier than her arms. She felt invisible when he was looking at her, as if he were reading her thoughts, or perhaps her soul. She shivered visibly, and broke her gaze from his to focus on the ridiculously embroidered hat he wore. It was magenta, and the thread was silver and gold.

"And your temperature?" he asked.

"Temperature?" She repeated ponderously.

She hesitated when he nodded. Her body was heavy, but also very cold. Slightly numb at her fingertips and toes. There was a dulled pain over her chest, where she had…well.

 _A war of hot and cold, indeed._

"A bit chilly," was all she could muster, "Numb, in a way, I suppose."

"I see," the headmaster noted. His eyes trailed along Hermione's face, as if looking for something in it.

"What is it, sir?" Hermione asked brazenly.

"Miss Granger," the headmaster's eyes did not lose their twinkle, but he did frown slightly, "Do you know what curse you were hit with?"

"...It was purple?" she answered dumbly. Any other day, she would have described it with many adjectives and in several different ways before someone cut her off with a terse "that will do, Miss Granger."

"Ah," he nodded, "Whatever it was, the worse of that curse has passed, if Madam Pomfrey's diagnostics are accurate as I believe they are. But I was wondering if you could tell me about the events during the cursing and what followed, if it is not too painful to recount, that is."

Hermione pondered his expression. He was naturally curious as to how she had survived and she had to admit that she, too, was intrigued. When it came down to it, she hadn't really expected it to work. But she _had_ been triumphant. The victory she had tasted had come out in a strangled laugh at the ministry. Here, in the bed, feeling broken and weak, it was bitter silence.

"I prevented him from saying the words," she answered, "Dolohov. He wasn't able to say the words of the curse."

The headmaster waited patiently, his quietness urging her to continue.

"I felt cold instantly," she answered, "A little pain, but mostly just…oddness. I felt off. The curse—I think it wanted to affect my magical nervous system. Or, perhaps my magical nervous system reacted to the curse," Hermione said, "I'm unsure, but I remember waking up with an intense burning. My entire body went from cold to boiling hot. I…"

She gulped and continued, "I remembered reading about Squib Theory in Muggle Studies, and it clicked. My Core... I didn't even need to look for my magic. It was spilling out of me—or at least, that's what I decided."

"Curious," the headmaster noted, "your method to halt the reaction."

Hermione blushed, "I…it was instinctual. The body relies on balance, after all, and mine was simply trying to balance itself. I had a thought…I needed to distract my magic. I needed my physical body to be in a worse state than my magical body. It was risky, but…" she made a rueful smile that did not reach her eyes.

"It was rather effective," Professor Dumbledore admitted, "Although not as effective as one could hope."

The nurse made a pinched face and said, hastily, "Albus, perhaps it's too soon—"

The headmaster cleared his throat to quiet her, then met Hermione's pleading gaze with his own.

"It's gone, isn't it?" Hermione said numbly. She didn't have the energy for tears, for shouting, for despair. She sat stupidly, unmoving, glaring at the headmaster although he did not deserve her contempt. She couldn't feel her magic at all. There was no humming in her hand of magic, no warm amber flowing in circles in her belly.

 _Gone._

"No, child, it's not gone. Not completely, at least." he replied, "But your magic will not return to its full capacity without great patience and training."

Hermione was relieved, but she also felt cheated.

She had worked so hard already, to prove herself in this world; she was the "brightest witch of her age", or so everyone kept telling her. It didn't come as easy as everyone thought. But that hardly mattered. She was a hard worker, always had been. She had willingly worked herself to the bone to keep up with the world that had existed without her for centuries. She hadn't grown up on "Beedle the Bard" like Ron. She didn't have the influence that Harry had.

But even after all her hard work to blend in, it wasn't enough. She had been able to ignore the prejudice with all that she had come to love in this world. But with His return, her Muggleborn heritage had made her a target for oppression, just as her oddity as a child had made her the same in the Muggle world. And now, her magic had been basically stolen from her. Ripped from her by her own body.

And there was no guarantee it would ever be the same.

Defeated, Hermione looked up at the ceiling and blinked at tears.

"It is best if you remain at Hogwarts for the Summer," the headmaster admitted as she glared, "I hate to remove you from your family during these dark times, but you will need to be monitored closely by Madam Pomfrey. St. Mungo's would be too public, you understand. I'll take care of the paperwork for the ministry."

"Of course," she answered dumbly. Her parents would be swayed to allow her to stay. She would tell them she was interning under a professor—a prestigious apprenticeship, "Thank you, sir, for your hospitality."

"It's no labor, my dear," the headmaster admitted, "In fact, the castle is a bit lonely during the summer and I would be glad to see you walking the halls. There will be no lack of company as Madam Pomfrey has agreed to remain behind. Professor Snape makes an appearance from the dungeons every so often, although I'm sure you'll want to avoid him."

The headmaster looked uncomfortable when she did not respond and felt the need to continue with the speech he had been prepared to make, "Miss Granger, I cannot deny that there are dark times ahead. Lord Voldemort," she couldn't help it. She had tried to break of the habit, but she felt the reality of his existence more fully now and this led to her flinching at the name, "has made his return public. Any wizard or witch who opposes him will find themselves in danger."

"Especially Muggleborns," she added.

He nodded, "Especially Muggleborns. You will need to be cautious from this point forward. More cautious than you may have needed to be previously."

She felt tears prick, "Of course."

"You will be especially vulnerable without your magic," he reiterated.

"I understand," she replied, "...sir."

 _I'm not daft._

 _Although I did get myself dragged into this ridiculous situation…_

 _Perhaps I am a bit daft._

He was surprised at her curtness. _What had he expected?_ She supposed she should have been optimistic, should have nodded and cheerily agreed to be quarantined to Hogwarts. She should have smiled and reassured him; that's what the old Hermione would have done. Her magic wasn't totally gone. It would return.

But new Hermione, the Hermione who had tasted death and torture, knew that it was likely that she would not find it easily, if ever. And with the threat of war, she knew that every second that it was not with her, she was in grave danger.

They would target her simply because she was a Muggleborn, and second because she was Harry's friend. If they knew she could not defend her, it would only be too easy. And it would only hurt Harry…

Hermione met the headmaster's eyes, but did not smile. The twinkling blue was dark and solemn.

"I don't want anyone to know," she began to blurt out. Her gaze was fixed on her hands; they seemed so white and empty, "The more people who know, the more risk there is that someone will…well."

"A wise decision," the headmaster noted serenely. His brow then furrowed, "Perhaps Mr. Potter—"

"No," Hermione decided, "Not even Harry. He'll just blame himself."

"Hardly!" The nurse interrupted, "Miss Granger, you need to tell someone. You can't recover alone-"

She met the gray-green eyes, "I'll be fine. You know, and the headmaster..."

The nurse was speechless. The eldery wizard looked removed, but did not object to her decision. Pomfrey, however, was admonished, and began to voice her opinion, "Miss Granger—"

"I don't need pity," she snapped with tears blurring her vision, perhaps too harshly. The mediwitch didn't glare at her; no, she continued looking pitiful of her, before squaring her shoulders and wiping her face clean of emotion.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head, "That's quite enough talk for today, then. I need to check Miss Granger's bodily wounds."

She sent the girl a look that said she wasn't going to be gentle, either.

"I am sorry, Miss Granger," the headmaster said, "I am personally researching methods of treatment, but…there has not been a case quite like yours before."

"Don't worry about me, sir," the girl said, warming slightly, "There are worse things to worry about than me. I'll be fine."

The twinkle was fully gone when left without another word.

"Alright, then, Miss Granger, let's have a look at that cut," the nurse said gruffly.

Hermione winced when the nurse's fingers tugged the hem of the hospital gown down. She craned her neck to look at it, and felt nausea at the sight of her flesh pulled taught together over a narrow, reddened scab. The work was neat, even if the rest was ugly. She had seen enough of her parent's surgical textbooks to know that it was with a skilled hand that she was stitched back together.

"When did you learn—"

"Hush," the nurse snapped, then continued her close observation of the wound with her eyes, only. Hermione obeyed. The mediwitch glared over the poking black threads, observing the cut with a shrewd expression.

When there was a loud banging at the door, she met Hermione's eye and set all to rights. Her gown was pulled up to the dimple in her throat and the nurse absently patted it straight.

"It wasn't me, Miss Granger," she said as she hastily dispersed to the end of the hospital, where Hermione realized a collapsed Umbridge was huddled, "I was fully prepared to use healing magic to seal you up, which very likely would have counteracted the effect your…self-maiming had on your overacting Core. Lucky for you and _your_ magic, Professor Snape restrained me."

"He…"

"He realized what was happening and lent his aid and expertise. Fortunate for you," the nurse muttered, "he also knew how to sew stitches manually. Unfortunate for you, it will likely scar."

She left to deal with the thumping on the door and a muffled request for entry. She instructed them not to "disturb" their only other guest, who was drooling into her hospital bed, her tongue lolled like the frog that she was.

Hermione was silent when Harry flew into the infirmary. He went straight for her bed and made a little shout when he saw she was awake. Ginny followed sheepishly behind. She hardly limped as she did and looked well-rested.

"No hugging!" The nurse snapped suddenly when Harry went to throw his arms around her.

Ron was startled awake by the sound of the snappish voice. He snorted awake just in time to blearily register that Hermione was awake, as well.

"'Mione!" he shouted, throwing the blankets off of him.

"Mr. Weasley, you will stay in that bed or so help me I will stun you!"

Ron hesitated, hovering between sitting and standing. Eventually, he shrunk under the gaze of the nurse.

"Hermione, I'm so glad you're okay!" Harry began to blurt, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've protected you—"

"Oh, shove it, Boy Wonder," Ginny muttered. Harry blushed when she sent him a pointed glare, "I don't know how you deal with him all the time. Since you lot got yourselves hospitalized, I've been left trying to tell him that it wasn't all his fault. _I should have_ this and _I could have_ that. It's very tiring have to reassure him every bloody second."

Harry's expression hardened, then fell, "But..."

Ginny rolled her eyes and nudged him with her shoulder. He withdrew behind his green, green eyes.

"Harry, I'm alright now. Don't worry!" Hermione smiled weakly, "Tell me what I missed?"

His eyes trailed over to the other end of the Hospital Wing. They were assured that Umbridge was under a heavy dose of sleeping potions considering the way she was sprawled, but any student who'd been hers would be wary to discuss anything of import around her without whispering.

"She won't wake, likely," Hermione insisted, "I think Dumbledore's warded her in."

Harry's expression seemed less tense, but remained morose. He explained the Battle of the Department of Mysteries in detail, starting with her being Cursed by Dolohov. Thankfully, he hadn't seen her cut herself—none of them had. For all they knew (and would ever know) she had simply been cursed.

But someone had seen her, had carried her and brought her to the ward. She glanced at Ron warily when he tapped his wand against the bed, trying to lengthen it to be closer to hers... someone had obviously wiped it clean of her blood and returned it to him.

She felt slightly exposed and pulled the blanket higher, wincing as she did. Ginny distracted Harry from seeing, tapping him and making a motion with her finger for him to lower his voice. She watched Hermione heavily for a long while, making hte brunette feel strangely scrutinized.

When he mentioned Sirius, Harry's voice cracked. Ginny, who had berated him only minutes before, slung an arm around his shoulders and laid her cheek against him.

 _Cozy,_ Hermione thought. Harry's expression drifted in between grief and comfort, but he refrained from leaning into Ginny dully. His cheeks were slightly flushed and he seemed to be hyperaware of Ron's gaze burning into the back of his head.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," Hermione began to say, although her words felt empty.

 _He shouldn't have been there. We shouldn't have gone. It was her fault..._

"It's not, erm, a real death…maybe?" he pondered, looking at Hermione hopefully.

"No, Harry," Hermione said with a grimace, "No one comes back from The Veil. It was the favored form of execution of murderers used before the ministry began to employ the Dementor's Kiss in-"

His expression twisted and fell.

"Subtle," Ginny whispered towards her. Hermione winced and shrunk back into her bed. Ginny's eyes softened and she reached out a hand, despite it all. Although it gripped Hermione's, the bushy-haired witch felt too weak to squeeze back. The weight of Ginny's palm felt absent, as if it weren't really there at all, and only succeeded in making her hand sweat.

"I wish we hadn't gone!" Harry said bitterly, "It was stupid."

"Yes," Hermione replied, "But…we learned from it."

"Yeah," Ron half-shouted, "I learned that we should listen to Hermione more!"

"You'd have thought they would have figured that out ages ago," Ginny mused to her, moving from Harry to drift at Hermione's bedside, her hand slipping out to fiddle with the potions that sat there.

Once Neville and Luna arrived and the group settled into a pseudo post-battle gathering, they forgot the lingering Umbridge, and spoke freely.

"Dad says they captured all the Death Eaters," Ron looked pleased, "'Cept Bellatrix Lestrange."

Neville was quiet. Hermione found his gaze, but he looked hastily away. Harry looked darkly at the window at the mention of the name.

"Any word from the Prophet…or Quibbler?" Hermione pondered.

Luna looked dreamily, "Actually, there was a nice article released yesterday about the Liverworst Wiverwump."

Hermione didn't have the energy to be irritated, and merely sighed softly.

Ginny quickly added, "Nothing but that interesting bit about Wiverwumps. The Prophet will release it soon. They can't keep it from leaking, anyway..."

"And Dumbledore's name will be cleared and he'll be back for good, hopefully," Ron mused.

"Yeah," Harry said sourly, "No thanks to the dungeon bat."

Harry wouldn't dare say it was his fault Sirius was dead considering the own guilt he felt, but it was on the tip of his tongue to say it when Hermione changed the subject, "The House Cup will be interesting. How many points did we lose for leaving the grounds?"

As Ron relayed the (unsurprising) lack of deduction of points, Hermione absently trailed her fingers over the bulge she felt through her hospital gown. She found her thoughts drifting to the surly Potions Master who had labored to close her wound with such care and skill. She had known that he would send for the Order as she had pleaded him to. He was an Order member, after all. Even if he was a double-crosser, he couldn't afford risking one of them relaying that he had ignored their obvious pleas without it being suspicious. And as a teacher, he had been obliged to assist in helping her.

Although the prejudiced compulsions of Death Eaters could very well trump the ethical obligations of a teacher, she couldn't help but feel humbled. Perhaps her instincts to trust him were not so traitorous as everyone thought... Perhaps there was something more behind those flat, expressionless eyes. Regardless, she owed him a debt.

And by her Gryffindor honor, she would repay it as best she could.


	3. Irony

**A/N: And here we are, three chapters in... it's coming along quickly! BUT I will usually post sporadically. School starts back Monday so I figured I would post early to make up for the upcoming weeks.**

 **Enjoy :)**

* * *

Chapter Three  
Irony

"These Gryffindors will be the death of me!"

It was just after the stroke of midnight when Madam Pomfrey stormed out of her rooms, her wand brandished threateningly, only to be met with a wing devoid of any unexpected presence. She had been half-expecting to find the Potter boy again, sneaking to wake his sleeping friends...

But there was no sign of any interfering students. Even after she waved her wand in a flurry of detection spells to discover any hiding body, the only sound that resounded through the wing was Weasley's snores. After casting a muffling charm around his bed (with a low enough setting that she could hear him if he was in peril), she lowered her wand slightly and shrewdly looked around. Potter had the uncanny ability to be able to sneak around the castle…

With a single deft sweep of the wing, she found that the rumpled bedsheets at the far-end had been thrown off of the stubby woman beneath them. Oh, how could she have forgotten? The witch beneath them was still as a mouse, but Poppy didn't doubt that she was lying in wait for the witch to step forward like the snake that she was. Her wand had been snapped in the forest, so she was lacking in that aspect. It served her right to have been left there by Granger, for all the trouble she had caused the school and the children. Poppy was no spring chicken; wand or no, the woman was dangerous.

Poppy promptly headed for her, increasing the wards around the woman as she did. After Dumbledore had retrieved her, she had been given enough Calming Draught to leave a hippogriff drunk for hours, but not enough that it would be damaging. The mediwitch should have expected that she would wake soon.

The wretched ministry official and High Inquisitor stayed put when the nurse cleared her throat loudly.

Poppy huffed a breath once more. And again.

Finally, the squat, stunted face of the woman met hers. The crazed, dilated eyes were not the product of just the rigged doses of potions she had received in treatment of her ailment (and to prevent her from escaping the due justice she deserved). No, Poppy shivered; the toad was furious. But she contained her brewing anger for a (fake) sweet smile… As if Poppy hadn't become immune to pleading expressions decades ago.

"Where am I?" she crooned, but her voice wavered and betrayed her.

"You're in the infirmary," Poppy clucked her tongue and waved her wand. "You should rest, now… headmistress. We wouldn't want you to further injure yourself after your little expedition into the forest, would we?"

The light flickered in those pools of mud, but Poppy smirked when the tiny smile wavered, "No, no, not at all."

Poppy was preparing a potion for her, offering it by levitation rather than by hand.

"What is that?" the 'headmistress' asked with narrowed eyes.

Poppy turned to her, "It's for the pain. You were tossed around quite a bit in the forest."

"It was those half-breeds! The centaurs!" Umbridge wailed.

"What are you talking about?" Pomfrey feigned ignorance, "The centaurs wouldn't reveal themselves to any wizard unless they had been taunted."

The witch's face turned gray, "Th-the centaurs attacked me! I was left to their devices by that girl—by the Mud… _Miss_ Granger." Gray slithered towards purple, "And there was a giant! A giant on the grounds of Hogwarts. The ministry—"

 _Albus, you owe me for dumping this wretched witch in my wing,_ "Madam Umbridge, please calm down. You've sustained a few injuries to your head during your bout in the Forbidden Forest. Your memory has surely suffered…"

The woman squinted at her, "I know what I saw—"

"You wandered out into the forest alone, looking for Dumbledore's weapon. Potter and Granger followed you—"

"I-I-I—I did no such…" the witch muddled. Then, with a tight smile, "Please, I need to visit the lady's room…"

"You should've asked, dear," Madam Pomfrey waved her wand nonchalantly. The sitting witch mewled in horror as liquid began to trickle freely from her, siphoned by magic into the bedpan with a flick of the mediwitch's wand.

"It's too risky for you to walk around," Poppy ignored her squeal of contempt and waved the mess away (it was fun to do, yes, but she couldn't have the stench in her pristine wing for long). Umbridge stuttered a demand to be freed, which was promptly ignored. Her smile made way to an ugly frown across her reddened, square cheeks, "You shouldn't hold it for that long, Miss Umbridge, and you're too weak to walk, hadn't you noticed? That's what the bedpan is for, dear."

"Now, you see here _—_ "

Poppy's voice was quipped in threat, "You need to stay put for now."

"I want to speak to the Minister!" Umbridge blurted, "I want to be released!"

"You'll wake the children, Dolores," Poppy frowned, "They've had just as much a time as you. Let us all rest, now."

Umbridge's eyes darted from the potion that Pomfrey was offering, then quivered furiously when she glanced in the direction of the children, on the opposite end of the wing, "Those miscreants deserve to be tossed in Azkaban! They'll be Kissed for this… For the attempted murder of a ministry official!" she shrieked when Poppy shushed her like a mother shushing a crying babe, "For harboring giants! I'll have that half-breed, _too_ , I'll make him pay—"

The witch slumped forward when Poppy couldn't hear it any longer and stunned her.

Feeling a bit delinquent, but glad to see the smile wiped clean from the toad's face, she pushed her flat on the bed. When she was certain she would not wake again, Poppy promptly fed her a dose of Dreamless Sleep. The ugly, squat shoulders relaxed and her body slumped further against the flat surface.

With that matter settled, Poppy sighed and rubbed her brow where a headache was brewing. Although it had felt good to make the woman suffer, if only a little, she never felt right when she was abusing her patients. The little voice that reminded her of why she had chosen to be a healer made her glance warily from Umbridge to the (hopefully) sleeping children, who had suffered at the inquisitor's hand on more than one occasion that year.

She heard rumors of Blood-letting Quills… _Blood_ -letting Quills. The castle was ancient, but by Merlin, it was inhabited by _civilized_ people whose lives were devoted to the children taught there.

She doubted the woman would pay for her crude crimes. The ministry had grown so corrupt in the last years and she had no question that this woman was deeply a part of that. Minister Fudge would not last long after the story of the children's misadventure would be released to the public. Or, more accurately, not long after his vehement denial of the dark lord's return was proven irrevocably erroneous. But the ministry, in itself, was unlikely to change even with his ousting. They would now be forced to dither to hastily prepare for the oncoming storm, and that would only lead to further error.

Those who had stood by Dumbledore and Potter—the Weasleys, the professors of Hogwarts, the Order—would not earn the credit they deserved for having tried to warn the wizarding world. Any gratitude would be lost in the panic that was going to ensue. Students would be withdrawn from Hogwarts. Families would try to emigrate, although she knew the ministry would try to prevent them. Many of those that stayed would not fight, but all would suffer in some way, just as they all had in the last war.

And of course, it was children that suffered first.

Cedric Diggory's death was still fresh in her mind, and now… although they had not died, the six who had ventured into battle would never be the same. They had sealed their fates as defenders of the light, without even understanding what that could mean.

Weasley's snores were breaking through the silencing charm she had set around him, little tufts of sound that plucked her ears. This was only further sign that his recovery was going along rather well. The Confundus did not linger as she had worried it would, although there was a possibility that side-effects would reveal themselves over time. After being kept awake for most of Friday, he had slept soundly until woken by the band of Gryffindor (and one Ravenclaw) meddlers earlier that morning. He had seem relatively unremoved by the injury.

Miss Granger hadn't minded when he had fallen asleep during their whispered conversation over a game of chess. She had sat in silence, reading a book brought to her by Miss Weasley while the redheaded boy slumbered loudly. That had continued for a few hours before Poppy made her swallow half of the potion's laid out for her by Professor Snape and turn out the candles. The girl had shrewdly observed each and every one of the spidery scrawled labels before throwing them back with a grimace. She refused the Dreamless Sleep, the last vial, but compromised for a mild calming draught. The unused vial of purple liquid sat at the end table; Pomfrey trusted Miss Granger would not abuse it.

It wasn't every day a witch was told her magic was all but gone and that there was no guarantee it would return. Hermione had taken it rather well, without screaming or crying or denying. From Poppy's perspective, this was not a proper reaction. Miss Granger was an intelligent young woman, logical and bright, but even the brightest of wizards were allowed a shout or even a curse when they were presented with something as devastating as a stunted magical core.

Granted, it wasn't as if the girl hadn't felt anything (she had shown remorse). Poppy did not _want_ her to have an emotional breakdown, but sometimes it was necessary for a person, especially a child (young woman), to release the negative emotions before they began to plague them. A good cry would have sufficed. But while Granger's tears had appeared, they had not fallen. She didn't allow them to, but held them back and made face.

As much faith as she had in the girl, she _was_ worried about her resolved reaction to her predicament. Poppy had pointedly placed Weasley in the bed beside her, which was far from proper procedure, hoping she would want to spill the Bertie's to him. Rather than open up to her friend, she submitted herself to a half a dozen failed matches of chess, although the nurse could tell by her crinkled nose and heavy sighs that she detested the game (or losing it, at least). She had avoided all talk of her wellbeing with their band of friends, and even when they were alone, the two best friends of the Boy Who Lived, she did not speak of her injury or the outcomes to Weasley, leading conversations towards Harry, the war, anything but herself.

The nurse would respect her wishes for now, but Poppy hoped she would eventually see reason and seek out confidants who could aid her during this trying experience. Mr. Potter wasn't exactly a reliable student, but he was a reliable friend—if anything, he would give his life for his friends (and those who were less than friends). She could see the compassion the boy bore, the compassion his mother had shared, for life and love and good. Yes, there was recklessness to him that could only be his father's, but the overbearing sense of nobility was uniquely Harry. It was a Gryffindor trait to believe the entire world rested on your shoulders, but that boy took that notion and ran with it at top notch. Diggory's death had devastated him… but he had grown in the last year, thanks to his friends. Granger's suffering would no doubt affect him, but she obviously doubted that he would be able to deal with her problem without letting it become his own.

Miss Granger was right when she assumed that he would blame himself for her…ailments. And from what she understood about Mr. Weasley, the seventh Mr. Weasley in particular, he lacked the emotional depth needed for this situation, as well. But she had been at their side during every hospital visit, after every Quidditch match, every scuffle, every encounter with trouble… were they that inept that she wouldn't expect them to do the same for her? Hadn't they been there, at her side, when she had been mistransfigured and then petrified in second year? Hadn't they eased her tears when her teeth had grown ten times their normal size? When she had woken from the Second Task?

She either had very little faith in their support or trust. That, or she hadn't yet faced her predicament. Denial, was, after all, the first stage of grief.

Poppy was gathering her worries into the place they belonged (away), when the door of the hospital sprang up with a large _Bang!_

She glanced at the children, worried they would have woken from the clamor. Neither made any movement, although Ron's snores had hitched for a moment, caught in his throat. They erupted not long after and she turned to preen at whatever wizard was brazen enough to storm into her wing as if—

"Ma'am Pomfrey!" Hagrid ducked through the doorway, bearing a lanky body shrouded in black. It was not hard to recognize that it was Severus—who else bore such a significant nose? And she had been half-expecting his troublesome return the entire afternoon. His absence had been noted at dinner the night previous, and throughout the morning and at dinner hours before.

She had many questions for him, questions about Miss Granger, about her treatment, about what the next steps were. The research she had made was pitiful, a scattering of mentions in a handful of texts about secondhand cases. He would have more answers about the experimental magical theory behind Miss Granger's situation than all of them combined.

Merlin, he was a sour man, but he was _brilliant._ She had heard a rumor that he had not just the one, but three masteries.

 _Three_.

"Rubeus!" the nurse greeted calmly, "You've returned!"

"The 'eadmaster called me back," the half-giant said, "I knew it wer' to work itself out. 't always does. 'Nuff 'bout me. I found 'em on my way in from try'n to fin' my little—erm—well."

Her eyes trailed to the slumped form in his arms. The trademark black hair was slick with sweat and matted with dirt. Even though he was not awake, his shoulders trembled, signs of _Cruciatus._ It was not an unusual symptom after his… absences. More often than not, she would not expect Severus to show up in the wing at all. He either didn't think he needed her help or preferred to do it himself.

As impatient as he was, she was willing to let him suffer through his healing, if only because she knew she would share in his agony every second in the form of his verbal lashings. That, and she couldn't remove the burning thought in the back of her mind that she was healing a Death Eater.

"Set him here," she instructed Hagrid to put the Potions Master down on the bed across from Miss Granger.

"I found 'em at the gate. 'e was face down in the mud. Erm…" the gameskeeper mulled. His eyes trailed from his empty arms, to the professor, "Will 'e be arright?"

"We'll see soon enough," she replied in haste.

Her hands shook slightly as she waved her wand over the pale—paler than normal, if that were possible—face of the man, down his torso, and stopping at his toes. There were a string of alarms—a minor loss of blood, temporary (and permanent) nerve damage from the _Cruciatus_ , an abrasion over his nose and one over his cheek, several thick lashes over his back, as well as signs of lingering, untended Curse…

What made her suck in her breath sharply was the fact that the wounds at his back had already been cauterized. The smell of burnt flesh was always unsettling, even for a woman of her experience. She caught it now, through the wool of his robes.

He would have been better off with a light jumper, but… wool robes still. They were the same he always wore, thick and finely woven.

 _Proud bastard_ , she thought.

Her stomach twisted with guilt as she set to quickly heal the abrasions on his face, rubbing orange ointment over the cuts. There was no response from him. He shivered slightly, more from the tremors of his nerves than in response to her touch. The pale, sallow face was slacker than normal, much softer than his usual scowl. Not handsome, but that hadn't been the case even when he was a young boy.

His silence was eerie. She thought of all the times he had been in her office before, sourly waiting for her to release him, barking when she wouldn't listen to his voice of reason…

"Ouch _! Were you trained to heal yesterday, woman? It's been five minutes already and you've only managed to determine that my nose is broken. A first year could have told me that with one look!"_

 _He was an ugly boy of fourteen, awkwardly tall and rail-thin. He would have been slightly prettier if he weren't always scowling at everything, or lifting his chin at her defiantly. His hair was fine and purely black, but took to grease like a moth to flame. At the current moment, it was pulled into a knot at the back of his neck, making his sallow, narrow face look harsher than normal. Poppy pursed her lips when he jerked his face out of her hands, away from her wand, and barked at her to be gentler._

 _The broken cartilage of his nose had left it red and split, turning purple in some places, but he didn't seem to cease his sneering to alleviate the pain it was causing him. She didn't ask him who had broken it… she didn't need to. James Potter was currently sitting in McGonagall's office, nursing his pride. The boy had been Cursed in a humiliating fashion, his bowels releasing in front of the entirety of the Great Hall. It had been years since the two had been allowed to be in the Hospital Wing at the same time…_

 _Considering the Gryffindor's injuries had been social in nature, Pomfrey was left to deal with the much snider Slytherin and his physical malady._

" _I don't have all day, Pomfrey," he snapped, interrupting her_ Episkey _. Although his voice had begun to carry an air of "propriety", it was still rough from the North, "I know you're gotten in on age, but some of us have exams in two days and can't bother lounging about in the hospital to watch you grow older. Not that there's much life left to have, as far as I can see."_

" _Don't be insolent, young man," she said sharply, too sharply, "Close your mouth, so I can send you off to your dungeon to leave me in peace. Or would you rather I left your nose this way? Not much different,_ as far as I can see _."_

 _His dark eyes, for a moment, betrayed his hurt. She immediately regretted it, but ignored the taunting voice in her head—he had been ruder to her than she had to him. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out._

" _Well?" She asked impatiently, "Should I be_ quicker _about it?"_

" _I'll do it myself," he snapped, grabbing his things and heading out. She let him go, too tired from her long night of dealing with young Lupin. The boy would learn the next time to not speak to her unkindly._

That was the day she had given up trying to be kind to him. After that, she had treated him mostly out of obligation, rather than because she cared for his wellbeing.

"Should—should I get the headmaster?" Hagrid lamented to her, as she stood staring down at the man and thinking of the boy he had once been. The crooked nose he sported now was her fault; he had fixed it as best he could, but it was quite difficult to heal oneself, especially as a third year (although he was always the top of his class, or second when it came to Charms and Transfiguration).

She could have offered to make it straight several times after that when he was in the hospital wing for other incidents—it was already big, couldn't she have made his life a little easier and fixed it? He needn't have known. She could have done it after he had been hospitalized after his run-in with the werewolf, when he had taken the Dreamless Sleep from Slughorn's store and she'd pretended not to notice him take it before curling up in the bed.

That was the last time she had seen him look afraid… the last time she had seen him as an innocent. Even then, it was only a flicker.

 _You could have been kinder to him,_ she told herself, _he was just a boy._

And now he's a man, dealing with the very problems he had dealt with in childhood—maiming at the hand of other wizards. Bullying was what it was, and she'd stood by while it happened because he had been an equal participant. Here, however, what choice did he really have but to sit and take it? He couldn't speak out against it—it would mean death or further torture.

Her gut told her he had brewed his own potion and should be resolved to drink it without complaint, but her heart told her that he was not as deserving of the torture as she had once thought.

Was anyone deserving of it? No matter the cruelty they had shown? Should they be treated the same?

She looked to Umbridge and her guilty heart did not have an answer.

"No," Madam Pomfrey said with a sigh, "Severus will be cross enough as it is that he's been in the hospital at all. The headmaster won't be any comfort to him while he's unconscious and I'd rather not distract him this late at night."

Hagrid seemed to find that statement befuddling, but cleared his throat, "So 'e's not…"

"He'll live," she said with a sigh, "As well as before… as well as he can."

The half-giant nodded morosely, "Poor Professor Snape… To his rooms, I 'spose. Like usual…"

Poppy hesitated. She glanced over at the young woman across from him, the young woman who was refusing to hide her pain from her friends. Brown eyes snapped closed and the girl went deathly, artificially still, hardly suffocating her squeak. The nurse turned away, pretending not to see the spying…

Miss Granger had never shown contempt for the professor, at least not in the way her classmates had. She wasn't exactly sprouting her affection for him, but the nurse had heard her defend him more than once to her friends.

 _Potter was freshly injured from one of the Triwizard tasks, but refused to listen to her instructions to lie back and_ relax. _He was ranting again, "Snape—"_

"Professor _Snape!_ " _The swotty, bushy-haired fourth year corrected sharply._

" _Snape," the dark-haired boy repeated cheekily with a frown in her direction._

 _Weasley chimed in, "Why do you even bother defending him? He doesn't even like you! He calls you know-it-all… he takes points from you for raising your hand! Not that deters you…"_

" _That doesn't change the fact that he's a teacher and should be addressed properly, Ronald!" Hermione said sharply, looking away from the boy to the window. The nurse had half a mind to send them both out if only to avoid hearing the bickering that was sure to follow, "Don't you remember, Harry? He saved you from Professor Quirrell in first year, and helped protect the stone! His potion revived me in second year—"_

" _With Professor Sprout's mandrakes. I know. Anyway," the dark-haired boy continued, "_ Professor _Bat-face is a Death Eater, I swear it! He must be the one who…"_

Death Eater or not, he was a teacher, chosen and spoken for by Albus himself. Even beyond that, she could not forget that his hands had tended to the girl in the opposite bed kindly, modestly, stitching her chest together without a word of contempt. He had complimented her on her swift thinking, even, looked at her with respect and pride.

The nurse doubted he would say the same in her conscious presence, but she also knew he had a role to play, just as any Slytherin without pureblood background did. And Severus, a half-blood, was always playing the part, and playing it well. She'd thought he'd been bitter and untrustworthy, but maybe the mask he wore was heavier than she had thought it was. Maybe he bore the torture for a purpose other than prejudice or greed or lust. Maybe…

If this were true, that he was a man and not a devil, then what was she, to have left him to face his battles alone? The man beneath the demon's mask had no one to spare kindness towards him, nothing to lose, no one to wonder about him, not even the nurse who had treated him when he was merely a malnourished, abused boy.

To her horror, she realized that she had slipped, far too easily, into a negligent unwillingness to accept her role as a healer. She had failed Severus Snape, the boy. She had forgotten his beginnings too easily… forgotten the telltale burns of cigarettes on his skin and the unhealed bones in his wrist, the ribs that poked through from poverty, and the eyes that spoke of a broken soul. He had arrived withdrawn, and turned defensively vile in his years at school; his soft words had become barks and his magic became vindictive. The friends he had made were equally foul, although for different reasons.

He had grasped at anyone that would give him a chance; he knew how to deal with evil, as evident in the telltale signs of abuse she had found, and so why not try his hand to be like one of them? No one gave a damn about him, anyway.

 _Not even you_.

Hagrid cleared his throat, worried.

"No, Rubeus," she answered kindly, "Leave him to rest for now. It would be best to stay out of his path in the morning, you know. He's going to be cross when he wakes."

"'Right," the half-giant smiled weakly, "'e won't be too unhappy. No one in the worl' coul' fin' anyone to treat 'em better than' you, Ma'am Pomfrey. 'ven Professor Snape agrees, a course."

She felt the twinge of regret at that statement having known that she was not as perfect a healer as it would seem (considering her treatment of Umbridge and Severus), and quite undeserved of the broken man's secondhand praise. Despite it, she smiled at kindhearted Hagrid who glanced worriedly at the surly patient before departing.

When she returned her full attention to her newest charge, she removed his robes with her wand, replaced them with an open-backed gown and loose hospital trousers. She rolled him onto his stomach, to try and discern what she could of the strange curse that afflicted him, as a small favor to him, and gasped when she saw his back in its entirety.

 _The lingering traces of a Curse, untended…_

Not one curse, it would seem, but several.

No physical burn would leave such a scar, a scar as foul in face as it was in theory. It had hardly healed correctly, an aftereffect of whatever combination of curses that had struck him…it was a wonder it was possible for it to have healed at all, considering it still had traces of magic in it. At best, it was a constant discomfort. At the worst, it was a chronic agony.

Her heart broke. It was an old wound, one that had been with him for a decade, at least. One he had hid from the world, from her. Whether out of shame or fear, she didn't know; it wouldn't have been so significant years ago to have known he bore such a cumbersome cross, when she believed him to be a lost cause. But now, suspicious as she was of his truer nature, she ached for his anguish.

To make matters worse, the amalgamation of uneven, splotchy flesh was layered in a crosshatch of fresh whipping wounds. For whatever reason, he had burned them closed rather than heal them properly. It was likely why he had passed out from the pain. She couldn't imagine the agony of the vulnerable, sensitive flesh being split and pulled away by magic, or having to sear them shut with fire. He was punishing himself… penance for his sins.

Or simply too proud to allow anyone to assist him.

"Oh, Severus," she wailed in a whisper, "Oh, you prideful boy. You—I…what have we done?"

He didn't wake. He was likely to skin her for keeping him in hospital, and would kill her if she left him exposed like this. She shakily placed a healing balm over his back with a single swipe of her wand, shut the curtains, and hovered outside of them, trying to pull herself back together, but unable to do so within his proximity. Eventually, the dam broke and she fled for her rooms.

It had been years since she'd wept over a patient, but she cried herself into exhaustion thinking about all the times she could have fought harder to be kinder to him. She was so overwhelmed, she did not wake even when the wards she set around the potions master trilled softly for a handful of minutes.

* * *

It was a sight to see to say the least.

She had woken from that dream again, a cry in her throat that was swallowed the darkness around her, only to hear a loud thud and following voices. She jerked awake, instantly swallowing her scream to listen intently to the conversation between Madam Pomfrey and Hagrid.

The nurse and the gamekeeper discussed the condition of the Potions Master, returned to the castle, although she hadn't even known he was gone since she was in hospital. The nurse took him in, and then Hagrid left. Hermione had been resolved to fall asleep when she had heard Madam Pomfrey's gasps, her near tears. It was then that she wondered if he was truly as alright as she had claimed. That had been enough for her to want to sneak in and see for herself… but the nurse had abandoned him quickly for her own rooms, suggesting he was well enough for her to leave him be.

When Poppy hurried away in a cloud of anxiety, she was even more perturbed. She could hardly contain the curiosity. The sheets were shoved back after a minute of silence, and her feet met the stone floor eagerly.

 _Curiosity killed the cat, you know._

 _Of course…But satisfaction brought it back._

 _Is this truly satisfying?_

It wasn't. Hermione hovered within the partition of curtain that wrapped around Professor Snape's bed, feeling a familiar churning of apprehension. Her anxiety was the product of knowing that the man she was hovering beside could and would likely tear her apart before she could explain her precarious position. It also stemmed from the horrendous sight his bare back displayed. It was bad enough that she was witnessing her professor in such a vulnerable state of dress, but she felt like a lecher once her eyes realized that the light was not playing tricks on her.

The glaze of the ointment left it polished and shiny, but did not deter the ugliness of it in the slightest. Every inch of his narrow back, left exposed to the air and covered in a clear slime, was a purplish-red mottling of scars, like those of a burn. Most of it was far darker, redder than the paleness of the rest of him, save thin veins of raised shiny gray throughout. It was a burn she had not seen before in any text, Muggle or magical, and she knew it was unique to him and him alone.

Sadly, there was an overlaying of fresher wounds. The blood was washed clean or had gathered into dark scabs that had been burned black… someone had cauterized them.

Shamefully, she found she didn't want to look at his back at all, but also could not look away. It was hard to swallow… not simply because it was ugly, but because she knew it was the cause of great pain. But she stared at it for a moment and wondered how he could bear to wear those heavy wool-black robes all day long. How could he stand so tall and proud and sneering with his skin in such a state? It must have been painful… it must have made him feel small and ugly and alone.

 _This was the man who saved me_ , she reminded herself when she wanted to turn away and run, wanted to cover her mouth and cry, _his wounds are practically mine—I owe him my life._

 _Yes, but he wouldn't want you to see this. He wouldn't want you to cry over him. Why would he? You're just a stupid insufferable girl._

 _But he saved me…_

 _So? He's a teacher; was he supposed to let you die? He doesn't care a wit about you or yours. You're an obligation to him._

 _But I'm not doing anything_ , she thought, _I just wanted to see if he was alright, that's all._

She knew she should have left before she came, but her feet remained planted.

"Get a grip," she muttered to herself, then clamped a hand over her mouth in surprise.

 _What are you doing, Granger? Haven't you played with fire enough in the past few days? You dealt with twelve Death Eaters. Don't try your luck with the thirteenth._

 _I'm just getting a closer look,_ she argued, _he won't even know I'm here_.

 _Dead from the neck up, aren't you?_

 _Shut it!_

She stepped closer, trying to be nimble and silent. Every shift sounded like thunder in her ears. That and her chest throbbed. The stitches were more painful than the wound itself, pulling her taut and making her itch. There was an ache within the flesh, but that was so numbed from whatever it was the nurse (or technically Snape by the scrawling script of the labels) had given her earlier.

That damnable face was hidden beneath lanky black hair, which was matted and dirty. Madam Pomfrey had been clearly distraught and forgotten to clean his hair in her haste for privacy. She didn't have her wand, although she absentmindedly reached for it to clean it with magic. She felt a twinge of regret, shame, and self-pity when her hand grasped for it and found nothing. She couldn't use it anyway, but it would have been comforting to have…

With a frown, she pulled the basin of water that had been Conjured and forgotten by the mediwitch.

The cloth was lifted from the water with shaky fingers, which tightened to wring it out. Every splashing drop was so loud she cringed, her eyes never leaving Snape's slightly shaking form warily. He wasn't awake, even after the sounds… or so she hoped.

 _Even if he's not, if you start prodding him, he'll wake soon enough._

 _So what?_

 _He'll chew you up and spit you out!_

 _No, he won't._

 _Don't be stupid. Little lions shouldn't play with sleeping snakes._

She ignored herself.

Professor Snape didn't make any indication that he had heard so she lifted the damp cloth up, wiping the dirty hair out of his face timidly. As her fingers, wrapped in the wet fabric, connected with his skin, she held her breath. The professor did not flinch as she pushed the hair away from his face with her other hand.

She was hovering, trying to stay close enough in the dark to see him clearly. His smoother skin was so pale, so white it was almost translucent. Up close, the planes of his face weren't as harsh as they were in the sharp contrast of the dungeons where they usually interacted. It was dark enough here that the shadows were softened all together, making the lines at his mouth, eyes, and between his brows harder to notice.

The sharp, thin mouth was slack rather than sneering. Most notably, there was a bruise on his cheek bone and a sharp redness over his nose, both covered in a dried layer of orange paste. The dark, fathomless eyes were closed over the purple sleep bruises and topped by an equally dark brow. It was rather elegant, arched and kept neat. She also noted that he had a strong, masculine chin, dusted with stubble. The shape didn't quite fit his narrow face and was overshadowed by the massive nose.

Of course, she couldn't forget his nose. It was aquiline, full of character, slightly crooked and the most prominent feature on his face. It held much more character than her own, plain freckled one. Although it was often the butt of the jokes he starred in, she decided she would prefer a large nose over the teeth she had endured in her younger years. From what she knew of his teeth, they were far from perfect, but not so bad that a little cleaning wouldn't fix them. Hers had taken a botched spell to make them the way that they were now!

 _And he made fun of your teeth that same day, in front of your peers._

 _In front of Draco Malfoy… hardly a peer._

 _Daft girl! He's going to murder you, and you're thinking about giving him a dental referral._

 _He's not going to kill me._ That much she knew. Scathe her, definitely, but murder her? He wouldn't have let her live to kill her. He wasn't _that_ sadistic.

 _His words are_ worse _than murder._

She ignored that truth. One hand held the clumped locks of hair, while the other scrubbed the dirt from it, wiping downward into her palm. It wasn't particularly effective, but she didn't have her wand. Her eyes glanced wearily between his face and inky hair. The hand that held it stroked through the strands, clearing the knots. They spread with ease; what she would give to be able to detangle her hair with a few careful swipes.

It was a soothing process for her. She forgot about her own pain, her own despair, slipping into the motions of washing, rinsing, repeating. She avoided looking too long at his face, fearing that she would find him waking from the weight of her heavy gaze.

Her hands left the gathering of hair, now clean, but she found herself instantly grabbing another two inches and setting on it from root to tip. The strands were so fine, without any density on their own, hanging heavier from the dampness that followed from the water she applied.

Before she even knew what she was doing, she was sitting on the bed beside him. Her hips were at his bicep and her torso hovered close to his back. She was careful not to brush against it, fearful of hurting him. Her scar was practically parallel above his, and somehow this made her feel calmer.

Tender fingers kept the hair from tickling the nape of his neck, which shared in the scarring, pulling it all to one side, tucked behind his ear. Her eyes drifted from the last lines of hair to his shoulders and back. She traced her own hand over where her own wound was hidden. Even through the fabric and the bandage, she could feel the raised skin, the pricking of stitches.

His was more than the single, shallow ridge that plagued her. It was numerous valleys making way to a scattered range of mountains.

She wouldn't dare touch it. She couldn't. But she imagined running feather light fingers over it. How could he stand it? Hadn't she seen Hagrid thump him on the back before?

 _No wonder he's always scowling._

Tears pricked. She couldn't hover too close. Her hair was escaping the hasty bun that contained it, threatening to tickle his skin.

"I'm sorry," she blurted stupidly, as if that would change what had happened to him.

She finished with his hair soon enough. It was a rudimentary sort of thank you, but it made her feel content, knowing she could lend him this small favor, even if he might never know it was her who did it (which she preferred he wouldn't). Although it was clean, she kept touching her fingers through the damp length, rubbing it between her thumbs and forefingers.

She had never been one for humming… but she was sleepy and felt comforted by their shared injury and thus, slipped into a tender murmuring song. This particular lullaby had been with her since she could remember, although its name could not be found. The words to the song (if there ever had been) were forgotten, but the melody remained with her, persistent and pervasive, although it never truly manifested as well in real life as it did in her heart. She always ended her attempts to compose it by puffing an annoyed breath through the recorder, with a flurried thump of intangible notes along her grandmother's piano, or a tight sigh of frustration that quickly ended her singing in the shower.

But here, at his shoulder, it drifted languidly in the background of her thoughts as she followed along with a deep thrumming of her throat. She could imagine the notes on the sheet of paper, plucked from a harp, and closed her eyes to commit them to memory, hummed them as they flowed through her. A familiar flow of energy was balling in her stomach.

 _Magic_? She thought hopefully, but it was not strong enough. Barely there, a flicker of light in the dark… a droplet of warm water against icy skin.

After a time, another sound interrupted her own voice so abruptly that she jerked, thinking someone had responded to her throaty singing, a quick response of notes from a piano. She looked around, her hands removed from his skin and hair to grasp for a wand that was not there. Her neck craned as she scanned for a shadow through the curtain. The sound—voice…a piano?—had not lingered long after she moved... and no one could be seen hovering beyond the curtain.

Had she imagined it?

Of course she had. It had definitely been a piano, heard clear as day… it had to have come from her overactive imagination. She had been deep in thought, however, immersed in the melody—it would have been easy to hear it so real, and confused her own voice as belonging to a stranger.

When she returned her gaze to Professor Snape, she froze. His black eyes had drifted open slightly, peering at her through the lids. His face remained slack, although there was a lowering of his brows in confusion. It was not in irritation, as far as she could discern, but then again, he looked as foreboding as ever, dark hair and pale skin and burned back.

Every thought left her. She lingered at his shoulder, frozen in fear, unable to open her mouth to explain herself or move her hand where it had hovered to return to caress him. His eyes held hers while she hesitated.

Hermione was unsure if he was seeing her or if he was just hovering in between sleep and awake. His body made no movement to indicate either was the case, and she stayed still, as if she could melt into the air and be unseen.

After what felt like eternity, the eyelids fluttered closed again, weariness overcoming him.

 _He saw you._

 _No, he didn't. He'll think he was dreaming._

 _Why would he ever dream of you?_

Hermione didn't linger long enough for him to wake again. She lifted from the bed like a bullet from a gun and fled for her own. She didn't sleep, but stared at the ceiling, clutching the front of her gown while trying to stabilize her shortened breath. She hadn't felt exhausted while she had done it, but now that she was in her bed, she regretted even moving. She felt so heavy and listless, like she could sleep for hours…

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the mauled back of her Potions professor and savior. She sat in silence, staring at the ceiling, tracing the planes of his scars with her eyes over the vaulted stone until her mind had committed it to memory.

* * *

Severus knew he was dreaming. He was standing at his mother's knee, barely more than a babe, but old enough to speak and walk. It was strange, to feel so small, after having been fully grown for near two decades.

But he couldn't shift away, even if he tried. So he stayed, looking respectfully up at the narrow, inexpressive face of his mother.

She didn't touch him or hug him very often. She was not an affectionate woman and, although she had resolved herself to her husband's poverty, she had instilled in her son a sense of manners and dignity from his birth. He did not doubt that she loved him, else she would not labor so hard to make him proud and hard.

And how could he not think she loved him when he was a small child and she was practically his entire world? It wasn't as if he had any love to spare for his father. The beatings hadn't quite begun, considering Tobias Snape threw himself into work. He was eager to forget about his tiny house, crowded with the presence of his wife and son and their _secrets,_ and so when he wasn't working he was at the pub.

When the mill shut down three years later, his escape was stolen from him and he turned against them, his catharsis their misery.

"Do you hear anything, Severus?" His mother asked with a slightly lifted brow. Her mouth was a frowned line, reminding him that she was taking this very seriously and thus so should he.

The boy shook his head politely at her question. He didn't hear anything but the silence of their tiny house of Spinner's End.

He was quiet. He didn't cry or whine or babble. He'd learned not to. It made his mother frown and his father angry when he made loud noises. And whenever his father was angry, his mother would be hurt. She never cried, either, although sometimes she pleaded, especially when the brutality traveled to him. And he didn't like to see her pleading or broken. He liked seeing her tall and proud, as he had grown to expect her to be.

"Nonsense," the woman said harshly, "A Prince always hears his magic. Some families claim they can see it; but that's not the truest way. Open your ears, Severus."

The boy nodded dutifully.

His mother had a sternness to her. It was less harsh than his father's brutish authority, but equally worthy of his apt attention and obedience. He always listened to her.

"Are your ears open?" She asked expectantly.

He closed his eyes and nodded.

Her long, spindly fingers placed themselves over his ears, blocking all sound without from him. She waited for a long moment, her hands cupping over his ears, even after she had asked him to open them.

"Can you hear now, my little Prince?" she asked him.

Her voice was softer than it usually was. He was even more eager to prove her that he was indeed what she expected him to be. Her touch was soothing to him… it was not often he could feel the comfort of his mother's touch, or smell the scent of her hand lotion. The boy's mind was calmed by the herby lavender and cool fingertips.

Comforted by her cupping of his face, his mind was open to truly listen as she had asked. The sound that resonated in the back of his mind was so gentle, softer than the smell of her lavender, but also much deeper than a mere scent. It was a sound foreign to his innocent ears, so strange and moving that he thought he was imagining it, a sound that was as natural as breathing.

He wanted to describe it, but couldn't. He hesitated.

"It's—It's..." he was speechless, amazed. Was it really true?

When he opened his eyes and met her equally dark ones, so brown they were black, she was smirking at him. It was his mother he had inherited most of his subdued facial expressions from. The smirks and sneers were hers; the anger was his father's.

"You'll play it for me one day," she said; an instruction, not a request, "with magic."

His eyes had widened.

"I had no doubt," she had said proudly, "You bear the name of Snape, but never forget that you are also a Prince, Severus."

It was never Sev, or Sevvy, or anything nauseating of that sort. It was Severus and only Severus. He preferred his full name because of this. The only one ever permitted to break that cardinal rule was Lily and that had been so long ago…

His father called him Tobias and he hated the way the man branded him with it whenever he made an appearance in their lives. The name his wife had chosen was unnatural; it was her grandfather's name, but he hadn't cared. The boy should have been named for his father, if she had been proud that he was his. There was no denying that the boy indeed was; the nose was undeniable. But being the bastard he was, Tobias Snape had made a case that she had named him otherwise because she had been unfaithful. It was an excuse to make her suffer for trapping him in a marriage with her pregnancy… an excuse to beat her and berate her with verses.

Eileen bore the bashings, and never once spoke out against her husband's slander, because she had wanted her son to have something of her pureblood heritage. It was the least she could do since she had failed to give him a pureblood surname, a robbery she would never forgive herself for. There was nothing she could do or would do to change that he would forever be a half-blood, but she could give him her grandfather's name so that he could have some semblance of his legacy.

She had suffered enough for her mistakes… abandoned by her family, beaten and battered by her husband, forced to shamefully allow her son to endure the same. And then, the icing on the cake… she had died a slow death, the product of so many years suffocating her magic out of a sick sort of honor towards her husband.

That first year that her illness grew fatal was the same one that he had wasted trying to win back Lily. That whole Summer, he had spent more time trying to catch her at their spots in the park and fields than to spend time with his mother. She had allowed him it—he finished his chores after all, and had a job in an apothecary in Diagon Alley (he had to walk forty minutes to get to the nearest Floo, but it gave him the money needed to pay back Lucius' for all what he had lended him over the years).

His father had finally found a job again in his fifth year. He returned on the weekends to torment them in drunken stupors that lasted from Friday eve to Sunday dawn. Severus was big enough he wouldn't try anything while he was there, so he never left his mother's side whenever the man made his way wayward back to Cokeworth.

He hadn't seen the frailness in her, as his mind was elsewhere, and she was a conniving, fulsome Slytherin. She was too proud to speak of any weakness, let alone to wear it on her sleeves. When her son wasn't making a fool of himself over Lily, studying, or working, he was spending time with Lucius, and she approved of him making powerful friends. She knew where those friends would lead him, but she hoped that he would be protected by them… as long as he was striving for greatness and networking with noble families, she was certain of his future.

After school began, he was so consumed with winning Lily back that he hardly wrote his mother any owls. He had slept outside Gryffindor Tower on more than one occasion. Around Halloween, however, Lily had had enough. She finally broke her silence, jumping out of the portrait to tell him to stay away from her—their friendship was over for good. She would never forgive him.

Severus had been prepared for that. For once in his life, he had swallowed his pride. She threw it back in his face, but he had _loved_ her so he swallowed again. His mother would have scorned him within an inch of his life if she had ever seen her son groveling in front of a girl, a Muggleborn with no influence save her brilliant mind and devastating kindness, making the same emotional mistakes that had landed her where was today. But he made the mistake without abandon, and grabbed Lily by the arms, intending to kiss her and be done with it.

Severus had been hoping that, of all things, a kiss could heal whatever it was that was broken between them. She knew how he felt. She had once hinted to feeling the same. And, oh, if only he could have kissed her. Then she would never have been able to deny it again.

Their fate would have been sealed, but James Potter had stepped in front of her protectively, shoved him away.

He would have given it all up for her, if she would have had him. His friendships with the Death Eaters… His plans to join them… his debts to Lucius; all would have been washed away if she would just _had_ him. They could have run from You-Know-Who. He would have protected her, like Potter hadn't. They could have been great together, or so he had thought in youth. Now, it was so far removed from possibility, it hardly mattered.

The time for redemption passed when she grabbed the swine by the arm, slinking behind him as he protected her, as if Severus would have ever, ever willingly hurt her. The jaded Slytherin had been unable to hold back the tears. A hovering Sirius Black hadn't even lifted his wand to hex him; the prat had instead burst into uncontrollable laughter, and Severus had fled.

He found himself pacing the seventh floor, wanting nothing more than to jump out of the window. Eventually, he determined that he would rather just return home to his mother. She wouldn't coddle him, but she would offer him a companionship that he could understand, one that he could handle with dignity. Their little house was shadowed with grief and grime, but it was theirs… he wouldn't have to feel pressured into servitude of 'greater' wizards or flattened by the rejection of a 'lesser' girl.

And for a fleeting moment, all he wanted was to go to that church and play the song for her, as he had promised, to play her the song of his magic and feel small and hopeful. He had heard it so clearly… a sure, steady melody that he could weave in his mind over and over and over, thanks to her instruction.

And that's when the door appeared.

He had slipped inside, wand brandished, expecting a trap set by the Gryffindors and eager for a fight… and found himself in front of the most elegant, beautiful piano he had ever seen. The rest of the room was forgotten in his memories, but the piano was pristine. Every inch of it had been shiny and black, save the ivory keys, and a nondescript symbol scrawled in silver over the surface.

He returned every night, avoiding the Gryffindor tower for the solace of that room; teaching himself to play it manually and perfecting it with a Charm.

His mother valued his education over all else. He had to work extra hard, considering his birthright or lack thereof, to prove himself. Her son would not slip into mediocrity; his name would be known and respected. It didn't matter that his Muggle father was a bastard; if he had the cunning and the diligence to prove himself, he would thrive in any setting. He hardly ever returned home for Christmas holiday for this reason. His mother preferred he studied in the safety of Hogwarts, even if it meant leaving her to deal with his father alone.

He arrived at Spinner's End that Christmas with high hopes that she would be glad to see him. They were dashed. She had received him from the bed she had been confined to and scowled at his foolishness. But his mother had been sicker than he thought she had and her scowl had slipped too quickly into a grimace of pain.

Her magic had been withering for years—especially when she had gifted him with the wand she had hidden from his father, the very same he wielded to this day. It had acted as some sort of anchor for her, protecting her magic. In a way, when she gave it to him, she was handing over her place in the Wizarding world… and eventually, her life. It was the only way his father would agree for him to go—his son could be damned, but his wife would give up her abominable affliction.

By yuletide of sixth year, her magic had grown so dim that her body was now fading with it. He had long since expected her to die after a beating from his father, from a push down the stairs or a sock to the stomach. But her death wasn't as violent… perhaps he could have handled it better if it had been, if he could blame it on his father rather than himself.

Instead, she simply lost her magic, her will to live, and drifted slowly away until suddenly, she was a wraith of the witch she had once been.

His mother had been practically abandoned by her Muggle excuse of a husband after he had sucked her magic and will dry, left to rot alone, without him or her son to lend her company. Eileen Prince was not a woman to ask for anyone's help, not even her son's. She led him to believe she was fine and chastised him when he pressed for a different answer. She hadn't even mentioned to him that his Tobias Snape was long-gone, apparently having taken a flat closer to the job in that distant town. There was little money sent home and it was likely the case that he had taken some minger for a mistress, but Eileen was frugal and had squirrelled money away for years that paid for what she needed to survive. Most of it went to Severus' schooling.

He spent the week before and after Christmas getting her into enough spirit to sit with him at tea time. The night of his seventeenth birthday, he carried her out of the house, hell-bent on convincing her to let him remain behind, to see her through a recovery… or her death. He broke into the rundown church near the river, placed her gently on the pew, and Charmed the song he had spent hours composing before on the piano.

He had planned to show her his mastery of his song, a Prince tradition, and then propose his idea to her.

"Severus," she said primly when he stopped and looked at her expectantly at the end, "What is this foolery about?"

Her fair skin was whiter than the snow. Her teeth were yellowed and frayed from lack of care. Her eyes were sunk into her thin cheeks. Even though she was frail, her body was primly straight. It was hardly effective, considering her jumper and coat swallowed her. Through that all, she didn't look moved or pleased. Just tired… and shrewd.

His heart had fallen, "You wanted…"

"I'm ill, I'm not an imbecile. It's more than just _The Song_ ," she had sniffed and lifted her chin nobly, "Spit it out, or hold your tongue and take me home so that I can return to my bed."

Severus straightened his posture, matching his mother's show of pride, "Mother, you should not be alone. I have already sent word to my Head of House—"

She interrupted him with a harsh sniff of her nose. Her eyes had narrowed and glinted and she sneered at him when his shoulders slumped slightly.

"No son of mine will throw away his magical education on a whim," she had told him when he had asked her to let him come home, to take care of her, " _No_ son of mine would be so stupid to think that I would condone such a foolish thing."

"Foolish… A whim?" he interrupted insolently, "My mother's health is no _whim_."

She had stood up then. Even though she wobbled, she would not have him rushing to her aid. She steadied herself on the banister—and halted his flinching with a poisonous glare.

"You will go to Hogwarts and finish your education this year, and the next," she had said in a dry, unmoving voice, "And if you disobey, there will be no place for you in my home. I'm not responsible for an adult boy without sense."

Severus had tried to reason with her—he could heal her, some way. He'd buy her a wand with the money he had saved. He could study for his NEWTs on his own, research how to make her better, then take them when he was ready. He would become a healer—It wouldn't be any trouble. It was his duty as her son to try to save her.

"Are you a Prince, or aren't you?" She scorned, "You're no healer. You've shown promise in the Dark Arts since you were a child, Potions and Arithmancy, subjects that baffle the simple minds of average wizards. _Healing_ would be beneath your talents. Do you want glory, or a life of wasted preventing those lesser than you from inevitable deaths?"

"Mother—" It was cruel, to belittle his love for her, his willingness to help her. It was there, it always had been, he knew. There was love between them. Perhaps not the same love that bloomed between Molly Weasley and her brood, but a love that he wouldn't change for all the Galleons in the world.

"I had figured you had forgotten that I was your mother and I am to be heeded," she had repeated with narrowed eyes, "I won't deal with an insolent child. If you wish to speak frankly with me with a level-head, then I will listen. But if you are going to whine any further of abandoning Hogwarts, then take me home this instant! Take me home and leave me to die in peace."

"But—"

" _But!_ " She had exclaimed, "I'll not be spoken to with such pestilences. You have ambition and yet you stand here, wasting precious time, Charming pianos as if it could halt my death. _Open your ears_ , Severus. Listen to your reason. The world doesn't halt for the salt of tears. It only halts for those who are cunning enough to make it theirs."

He had struggled to find words to sway her after being shot down so harshly, but he had continued to make his case. She had sat in silence, not speaking another word to him.

In the end, he had taken her home. She headed straight for her room, and shut him out, physically and metaphorically.

It had stung to hear her shortness, to feel her distance. Even though he knew it was her way of making certain he didn't squander her magic as she had, to make him want to stay away so that he could thrive as she had not been able to, it had hurt to be betrayed by her. Although their love was there, it was muted, subdued by the circumstances of his birth and her imprisonment. There was no underlying tenderness, as he had hoped; only a loose connection formed by honor and through common trepidation at the hand of Tobias Snape.

It was the very same love she had always presented him, always would present him, even to her dying breath. He took it as it was. He had been angry because she had been right, so he Apparated to London that night, without another word to her, and stayed in the Lucius' flat for the remainder of the break. That was the first time he had met some of the more influential Death Eaters. They discussed the interest the dark lord had in his abilities and they arranged his first meeting for the following summer.

His mother died a week before term ended. Slughorn had brought him the news. The man hadn't even known he was a Prince descendant, until he was informed of Eileen's death and asked to relay it to her son. He hadn't given him the light of day before that, thinking him bright, but lacking in any substantial influential aspect. On the day his mother died, he asked him to join the Slug Club, as if it were a condolence. Severus did not cry for his mother at all. He agreed to join the Slug Club, knowing it would give him connections that his mother would have wanted him to strive for.

He did not cry for her, but he felt like crying when he woke from the dream, the memories fresh in his mind and hardened heart. But someone was there, hovering, and he did not dare move, lest he give away the element of surprise.

The gasp that escaped her should have sent him reeling. But his eyes remained shut. His tongue didn't even twitch. Perhaps he was too weak… or maybe he was hoping it was his mother, come to claim him in death.

Or Lily… his heart nearly stopped at the thought. Had he finally been redeemed… had he even thought that possible?

"Get a grip!" he heard someone snap. There was a popping sound of a palm clapping over a mouth.

 _Granger…_ of course. No one dead could feel this tired, hear her voice, and not be in hell. He was alive, and in the hospital wing.

Like a fool, he had thought he could be blessed with forgiveness. It tasted like ash in his mouth.

If he were in a right state, he would have rolled his eyes when the Granger girl shuffled forward timidly. The girl was a consummate Gryffindor—unable to help herself from getting involved in that which she needn't be concerned with. She would no doubt be happy to relay her sightseeing to the dunderheaded duo she herded around the castle. He could feel the air on his back, dulled by the heavy glaze that someone had put over the lashes he had sealed shut with a flame.

If and when she told her moronic friends, they would use it against him, just like Potter's father would have, just like Potter no doubt would with the memory he had intruded on months before. His blood boiled for a moment, even as he remained unmoving.

 _Fucking Bellatrix_ , he wanted to scream. It was her fault he was here with Granger snooping around him, her fault he had been put in such a stupor that he dreamt of his mother of all people. Even as he accepted his torture as punishment for the crimes of his past, he was planning to commit his revenge on the witch.

He didn't even want her to suffer—he just wanted to strangle her until her eyes bulged and her face was blue. Death was a swift assurance that she could no longer wreak havoc on his body ever again… or on the bodies of the children he was charged with.

Water trickled nearby… and then there was a coldness pressed to his forehead, pushing the hair that laid over his face away. It was sweet bliss, like when his mother had cupped his ears and demanded he listen.

Every other sensation he had felt for the past day had been either oblivion or perdition. Damp fingers trailed across behind the cloth, keeping his hair back from his face, and it was heaven in and of itself.

Her movements halted for a moment. He could feel her looking at him. That would have been a perfect time to open his eyes and scare her away—But he didn't, or couldn't. He would rather not discern which.

The cloth was so cold against his skin and he already felt cleaner from it. He couldn't remember the last time someone had willingly touched his face or hair without making his skin crawl… surely, it had been his mother, too. Nearly two decades before.

 _What's she playing at?_

Then the ministrations began. For the life of him, he should have moved, but it was wonderful. Her movements were gentle, but sure.

When the weight in the bed shifted beside him, he nearly trembled. He did tremble—tremors from the Cruciatus.

She didn't smell just like lavender, but also slightly like vanilla. It wafted towards his nose as she lingered, leaving him hypnotized, drunk. Thankfully, at no time did she come close to putting any pressure on his back, which ached dully from the layer of ointment that had been applied. Her breath could be felt on his neck, though, as if she hovered over him protectively.

"I'm sorry," she choked, bringing his mind back from the pool of thoughtlessness.

His insides clenched violently in response. _You know nothing of which you speak,_ he wanted to snap at her. Who the hell did she think she was? There was blood enough on his hands to omit any need for anyone to ever feel sorry for him. Hadn't he striven to make that clear to the world? Still, she stroked his hair, as if it were a comfort… as if he could be comforted.

There was no way he could ever forget that he was a man who had affronted God in each of seven ways, no way that anyone's touch could be anything but damning. No one could remove the guilt he felt for the deaths he had caused. No one could absolve him of robbing Lily of all the happiness he had wanted them to share, yet had resolved to let her have without him because he had loved her, fully and truly. He wanted her happiness, her wholeness, more than he had ever wanted his own.

Once he thought of his lost love, of all that he had lost in his life before this witch ever even appeared in it, the threat was in his throat for her to stop. But in the same moment, she started it—the humming.

A slow, soothing sound made in her throat, followed by tentatively by another, then another. It was steady in moments, full and purposeful, each chord replaced by the next smoothly and prettily. Short, choppy hums made way to a vibrating sort of lullaby of notes that lacked any legible words, washing over him like the water had washed the dirt from his hair. It was more comforting than anything his strict, formal mother had never been able to give him.

The song made him feel clean… and light. Like the weight was gone from his shoulders. Like air could move through his lungs with ease. Like his stomach wasn't spitting fire and churning guilt. It was so much lighter than his own; quicker in pace, but not so quick that they couldn't meet each other's tempo. Keys of a piano trailed behind her soothing violin, melding the song he had labored to play for his mother more than himself with hers.

He was so moved by the harmony, he opened his eyes to look at her. She was so focused on her hands in his hair, she didn't even feel him look at her. Her dark brow was lowered in concentration, but the rest of her face was at peace. Miss Granger of the past was replaced by the young woman he had begun to see so few evenings before—the bushy-haired child had abruptly made way for the young woman with the hardly noticeable freckles and the sharp, angular jaw, the young woman who had surprised him by straying from her usual predictability and acting on instinct and sheer cunning.

Insufferable, still, he imagined, although not quite so in this light… in fact, she looked ethereal in that particular moment, rather than harried or unkempt. Her hair was a halo of escaping curls; only half stayed pulled up and away from the delicate bones of her face into a knot. Her mouth seemed fuller, pursed together as she ran nimble fingers over and over in his hair.

Low in his chest, his essence instinctively responded to the combination of her physical beauty and the beauty of her lullaby. It flared awake from slumber as if her song had awoken it from a deep sleep, the notes he heard in the background playing across figurative piano keys. Lazy coils of heat swelled in his diaphragm, pulsing in a rhythm not unlike the one she wove together in her throat.

She stopped suddenly, looking wildly around the curtain.

Her hands ceased their stroking, leaving him wanting. The desperate Potions Master sought redemption in keeping her from seeing him, but that too was squandered when she returned her gaze to him and froze. The calm in her eyes scattered for a startled parting of lips and wide, wide eyes that did not break or blink away from his.

 _She's scared of you_ , he reminded himself bitterly. _Go ahead. Prove her right. Show her what you really are. A monster._

But he couldn't speak.

His soul felt empty, abandoned. He was too tired to put his mask back into place, too vulnerable to play the part. He stared at her through half-lowered lids, the rest of his face impassive. She stared back, a deer caught in headlights.

Her eyes were darkened by the lack of light, wide saucers of burnt amber, and her mouth was parted into a gaping bow. His loneliness took hold of him, and he slipped behind her eyes, as easily as it was for her to slip her hand through his slightly tangled hair. He just wanted to hear the sound of her song again, for a second before he was forced to send her away.

Other thoughts slipped through instead.

 _Curiosity killed the cat, you know._

 _Of course…But satisfaction brought it back._

 _Is this truly satisfying?_

It wasn't, she decided. It was horrendous. It made her stomach churn. And she pitied him. But it was a different sort of pity than what he would have expected.

She wouldn't tell anyone. Not even the dunderhead duo. She would never speak of it to him, unless it was revealed to her from his own mouth (which was highly unlikely).

 _This was the man who saved me_ … _his wounds are practically mine—I owe him my life._

 _Yes, but he wouldn't want you to see this. He wouldn't want you to cry over it. Why would he? You're just a stupid insufferable girl._

 _But he saved me…_

 _So? He's a teacher; was he supposed to let you die? He doesn't care a wit about you or yours. You're an obligation to him._

 _But I'm not doing anything_. _I just wanted to see if he was alright, that's all._

She _was_ a student and for that he _would_ protect her. But although she was his student she was Potter's friend, and that meant that there was no room for him to care for her.

What did it matter? Obliged or not, she was live, wasn't she?

And he hated her; at least, that's how he had been forced to act. But in his mind, he had hated her a little. She reminded him of Lily; a bright Muggleborn swept up in Potter's schemes, her intelligence squandered by her association with the reckless and charming.

And bright, beautiful eyes that whispered of kindness.

 _What are you doing, Granger? Haven't you played with fire enough in the past few days? You dealt with twelve Death Eaters. Don't try your luck with the thirteenth._

 _I'm just getting a closer look… he won't even know I'm here_.

 _Dead from the neck up, aren't you?_

 _Shut it!_

Timid, scared, but determined. She wanted to help him, repay him.

What was there to repay? He couldn't let her die. That didn't deserve payment. He had so much blood on his hands already, one act wouldn't wash them clean. One act wouldn't make him worthy... but her touch had felt like forgiveness and he wanted badly for it to continue.

But even as he quelled with his ache for redemption, he was forced to swallow it in face of the consequences. Granger was going to die, just like his mother. He didn't want any part of that. He didn't want her blood on his hands...

 _Even if he's not, if you start prodding him, he'll wake soon enough._

 _So what?_

 _He'll chew you up and spit you out!_

 _No, he won't._

 _Don't be stupid. Little lions shouldn't play with sleeping snakes._

They shouldn't.

His face was seen through her eyes. It was not pretty, but she found him far less ugly than any of her peers, than most of his colleagues. It was an innocently honest description.

It humbled him, made him fumble to break away from her wide gaze.

 _And he made fun of your teeth that same day, in front of your peers._

 _In front of Draco Malfoy… hardly a peer._

 _Daft girl! He's going to murder you, and you're thinking about giving him a dental referral._

 _He's not going to kill me._

He wasn't a sadist. He wouldn't touch her.

 _His words are_ worse _than murder._

And he should have spoken them then.

He would hurt her with them. He would have to…

She was his enemy. She was the target of the Dark Lord. She was Potter's. That alone made her deserving of his hate. And he would have to push her away with vile words and empty threats if he wanted to keep his life. If he wanted hers to be safe.

But how could he be cruel to her, knowing what burden she bore now? The burden both of seeing him through clear, trusting eyes, and also the burden of her own troublesome affliction. She tried to choke it down, tried to put the illness out of the forefront of her mind—but under the surface, it crippled her. The idea of losing her magic left her squandering, shaky, weak. It didn't help that it was his mother's ailment all over again, embodied in this slip of a witch. It was like fate was weaving irony into his already far too figuratively caustic life.

Would she, too, fade into a wraith of a girl she once was without it? Would she give way to a slow death?

With that thought, he closed his eyes. Damn him, but he was so tired... too weak to push her away, too strong to ask her to stay.

Her face swam in his eyes even after he closed them, his heart unable to bear the weight of those wandering thoughts. She scurried away not long after. His exhaustion overcame him once more, the wake of his brief heaven making way to oblivion.


	4. The Ultimatum

**A/N: Here you are lovelies! Thanks for the reviews and all the encouragement.**

 **Disclaimer: JKR rocks Dobby's socks, and mine, too. It's more than hers.**

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Chapter Four  
The Ultimatum

One moment Hermione was drifting aimlessly, purposelessly over a sea of nothing, wandering and yet not feeling lost at all. In that same breath, she was stirring in a bed in the hospital wing, blinking up at the ceiling, and grasping at the tendrils of sleep that had so absolutely consumed her, yet now were slipping desperately away. Although she still felt quite exhausted, the empty dream escaped her, and she was grudgingly forced to face the dawn.

Whatever had woken her had left her body feeling alert and expectant, although nothing seemed amiss as she blearily surveyed the room. She was certain it couldn't have been the sun… although the dawn was broken through the window, the light was still dimmed and gray throughout the room. It wasn't as pervasive as it should have been at the hour it was, considering Madam Pomfrey usually spelled it so her patients could sleep despite the many windows.

Ron was snoring, but Hermione had grown immune to the sound years ago (thanks to Lavender Brown's deviated septum and the various different snores of each of the Burrow's redheaded residents). Regardless, the snores of one Weasley were nothing compared to the lot, and she had spent more than one summer laying restless or studying past bedtime surrounded by their chorus of wheezes. Then again, Ron was perhaps the worst she had ever heard. The ones he expelled now were muffled significantly, probably by a spell, and not disturbing in the least.

No one had yanked the sheets from around her, or shaken her by the shoulders as Madam Pomfrey had the day before, although she _felt_ rather displaced. It was a typical feeling of oddness that followed from waking in the hospital bed rather than her accustomed four poster in Gryffindor tower. It was further increased by the fact that when she reached for her wand, it was nowhere to be found. When her hand returned to the bed, as empty as it had come, she remembered that she was Hermione Granger: witch, interrupted.

How could she feel normal when her wand was being held captive by the nurse and her body was screaming at her?

A world that began without reaching for her wand was not a world she wanted to live in, although that could hardly be helped at the moment, especially in the state she was currently in. Each movement she made echoed dully around her as she shifted and removed herself from the blankets (which did little to warm his chilled bones) to stretch and meet the morning. Every crinkle of cloth and stretch of bone alerted her to the stillness of her surroundings and the discomfort she felt, but it was the pain that made her world feel lonely.

With the cut aching dully, she rolled up onto her forearms, hunched slightly on her side, and sighed heavily when it took more effort to do so than usual. The stinging that had been subdued the night before was flaring worse than it had since the initial… incident, leaving her significantly breathless when the skin pinched together. Beyond the pain, there was discomfort. The bandage had grown hot as she slept, although her body was quite cold, and the contrast was unnerving. Thankfully, it was magically applied and thus did not slip, but whatever spell that held it to her was making her skin itch in irritation. What skin was not inflamed was numbed, and that was practically as bad as the burning feeling in her flesh.

Despite the effort, she turned and sat up, shoving the cloud of hair out of her face as she did so. With a wince, she hunched forward, then realized that this was an even worse idea, as her chest shrieked in protest. The sheet slipped away from her as she struggled to find a comfortable position, and she shivered from the lack of it, but she was too overwhelmed to return it over her knees. Between shoving the frizzy hair back and ignoring the pain, she could hardly support herself and only managed after great breaths.

When her world settled once more, she hardly felt any better. Her body was not only achy, but terribly cold—a side effect, Madam Pomfrey had said, that was expected to persist—and she doubted that she could quell it with a simple hospital sheet. Stubborn as she was, she left it abandoned at her feet and sulked at it as if it were to blame for the fact that her physical shell was imbalanced and broken.

Although it was instinctive to do so, she couldn't hug in any of her own warmth without stressing the wound. As the shock of waking left her and her muscles groaned, she stretched backwards, supported by her elbows, alleviating any tension in the cut that ran over her torso by elongating her body. She gathered a bit of strength with several quick breaths and was prepared to throw her legs over the side of the bed when she realized, all at once, that she was not alone.

Ron, of course, was sleeping feet away, sprawled, drooling and bleating against the lower-level silencing charm, but he was not conscious and therefore was irrelevant company. Professor Umbridge was under wards, the curtain drawn over her completely. Hermione would have heard had they been broken—Dumbledore himself had set them and the nurse had reinforced them throughout the day. If Madam Pomfrey were present herself, she would have instructed her tersely to lie back rather than stress her body further and chastise her loudly and proudly for her stubbornness.

She appeared alone... but yet, she felt a presence lingering in the shadows of the threshold of the wing, just beyond the corners of her vision. Every muscle stilled as she recognized the weight of eyes on her person and then the distinct aroma of spice and iron.

Shamelessly, her eyes drifted closed for a moment as she inhaled the raw smell through her nose: patchouli and bergamot, clove and, surprisingly, moss. It was a pungent, faintly smoky smell that surrounded the classroom of the dungeons and sometimes followed the potions master when he prowled around the school. She let the herby scent roil around in her mouth and nose, tasting it on her tongue before she exhaled in a muffled sigh.

Although she felt loosened by the deep breath, she could not deny that the weight of his dark, fathomless eyes on her skin made her uneasy. When she lifted her chin slightly and met his gaze with her own, it was piercing; so piercing that her skin flushed involuntarily and she swallowed sharply.

It was a feat, however, that she did not look away. As a child, the depth and density of Severus Snape's eyes had felt far darker and heavier than they did now. It still left her motionless and pensive, but she'd grown in that she could distribute the weight under the right circumstances and keep them with her own, rather than hastily glancing away. Despite her pride, her mind reeled from the strangeness of the situation. It was disturbing enough to wake up with a professor, this particular professor, staring at her (although he was merely repaying the favor she had presented to him not hours before), but even stranger to meet his gaze and not want to shrivel beneath their weight instantly.

Instead, she searched his face, inwardly admiring how miraculously different he looked in the matter of hours, or days, that had passed as she slept.

In the gray light of the wing, he was much harsher than he had been in the night, more akin to the professor she had been accustomed to seeing. The lanky black hair showed no sign of having been washed, instead hanging lankier and greasier than ever around his narrow, angular face. His beetle-black eyes showed no hints of compassion, but instead were sharp and analytic, as if he were evaluating something about her face or posture that he disliked. It was the same narrowing of eyes that he sent in her direction whenever she (or rather, she, Harry, or Ron) was and were getting into business that wasn't hers and theirs. As usual, the strict mouth was tense at both ends and his nose was pinched at the nostrils, breaths away from a sneer. Despite his sour expression and calculating eyes, she could forgive his face the rest of its misgivings: it was not a traditionally handsome visage, but she enjoyed the familiarity of it. She especially admired it now since she knew that when it slackened to sleep, his features were far comelier.

If she ever had the chance to call him handsome, she would owe Ginny a galleon... the redheaded witch would die of shock at hearing anyone call the potions master anything but greasy. She nearly giggled, imagining the bold girl's reaction, but was glad she didn't. Ginny would never agree... was there anyone else that existed that would? Had anyone even seen him in the same light that she had?

Her heart-rate spiked when those thoughts were met with answers she did not care for. On one hand, it could have been no one and then she felt sorry for him—sorry that no one had a chance to think of him as anything less than strict-lipped and sneering—but she also, guiltily, felt a sense of superiority. If no one else had admired his face in the same way, then she was singularly fortunate… or, as Ginny would argue, perhaps loonier than Luna. But it was highly unlikely that she was alone in her observations of him. There could have been one, two, a hundred… who had seen this side of him, or another she had not been privy to, and she would never have been or be the wiser. She was not aware of what he did beyond the walls of their classroom and a handful of experiences within the castle or on the grounds, let alone how he spent his holidays or the years before she had known him—before she had lived, even, as he was... twenty years old. As uniform as it was to detest the potions master, she was not naïve enough to think that a man, albeit a spy, of his age and experience would not have had at least one encounter of an intimate nature.

Had they encountered a face that was even more pleasing? A face that was smiling or, Merlin forbid, laughing, or…

She cut herself off from wondering about any other pleasure-filled facial expressions. Feeling lecherous, she hid her eyes from his, choosing to drop them from his face to observe the rest. The hospital gown and pants were gone, of course, replaced by swarthy black wool, a frock coat buttoned from wrist to chin paired with straight, finely woven midnight trousers, all blanketed in an overlay of dark robes. He was a rather tall man, taller than most men, but the length of him was not nearly as extreme as the lack of width. Although his robes hid his emaciation in their voluminous shape, she knew him to be far slighter than was healthy.

If there hadn't been dirt still on her fingers, she would have believed it to have been a sick nightmare; all signs that he had ever been laid in the bed across from her were gone. His jaw was bare and clean, the orange paste had been absorbed or wiped completely away, his hair was weighed not with water, but the typical layer of oil from a day or early morning in the dungeon. All injuries he had suffered and the frailness of his body were consumed by severely modest ebony robes, protected in their absence of light like a shield over his bruised pride.

Hermione was not surprised that he hid himself beneath the folds of robes. She had long since been aware of the weariness that he felt. As proud and prickly as he was, it was difficult to hide all the physical signs of poor health and stress. The sallow skin, skeletal frame, and bruised eyes could only be the products of either clinical insomnia, malnutrition, depression, chronic malady, or a combination of the aforementioned. Combined with what she had seen the night before, it was hard for her to believe that he was unaware of his poor health.

But it was innate for a Slytherin to cloak any misgiving they would have, and thus natural for him to hide his particular form of vulnerability from those that already detested him, from those that would seek to use it as a weapon... and in some ways, from those who would pity him for it. If he was anything, he was extremely possessive of his privacy, and for good reason. It wouldn't do for a spy's secrets to be public knowledge... it would devalue his tricky brand of currency and make him a very bad spy if people were completely certain about his nature.

Even Dumbledore probably wondered, although she doubted whether he would trust the man as he did, vocally to others, if he did not have some evidence of the man's loyalties. The Dark Lord certainly didn't have questions, or he would be dead... unless his position was so valuable that he overlooked Snape's true loyalties.

Or unless, the man truly was a Death Eater and had fooled the former rather than the latter.

Regardless, as dark as he presented himself to be or as honorable as Dumbledore believed him to be, she was not certain he was completely either good or evil. He, by definition, was a contradiction. A hateful, dark wizard that was a spy for the light; a proud, arrogant man who was lieutenant who bowed before not one, but two powerful wizards; a brilliant teacher who belittled his students, who drove them to both hatred and despair. She, the consummate Gryffindor—complete with great convictions about duty and honor and a reckless need to uphold those convictions—should have hated him along with the rest, simply for the sake of wanting to protect those he stomped on, those like Neville who had proven by boggart that he was a man to be feared by children. But the deeper parts of her, the parts that were Hermione removed from her house traits, could never fathom mirroring the grace with which he embodied such a contradictory nature, and thus was quite awed by it. Quite awed by him and his ability to be both at once and yet neither at all.

In her opened eyes, he was a man who was hiding his truest nature, a man who she wanted to both pick apart and leave in peace... she wanted to know what it was like to see into the shadows, like he did.

When he finally moved, he waved a hand. A row of vials filed from thin air towards her, dancing to land on her bedside table, distracting her from her musings. Although it hurt to sit, she did so, out of respect for him, and also because she felt like laying on her elbows with her head tilted backwards to look at him was far too languid of a position in his presence.

"Miss Granger," he greeted with a tilt of his head, removing himself from the threshold and approaching her bedside, his dark eyes travelling from the top of her head down to the sheet that was rumpled over her shins. She winced nervously as she grabbed for the hem of her gown, yanking it closer to her knees than her middle thigh, and tugged at the sheet upward. It twisted, however, and did not succeed in hiding her flesh which (embarrassing enough in itself) was hairier than it would have been if she had wand... or magic at all.

She had expected him to leave the potions and depart, but he had approached. Still, she knew he was not there to provide her with comfort—she could tell by the steely look on his face that he was displeased. Her heart beat faster when she pondered what it was that had put him in a dark mood… beyond the obvious, of course. He very well could have been aware of what happened—seven hours before? By the looks of him, he had not slept as much as he should have. She knew he hadn't—he was equally deserving of being as bedridden as her, but looked as if his day was quite started. The smell of him came from freshly-brewed potions, if the half of the ones that sat beside her were labeled and dated for that morning, and the were.

Her voice shook when she returned her gaze fleetingly to his, then stared at the highest button at the hollow of his throat, "Professor Snape." She shivered again, both under his gaze and from the coldness of her body.

Although it would have been simpler to levitate a blanket from the cabinet where Pomfrey kept extra, the potions master Conjured a woolen throw. It was deeply emerald in color, forest almost, though brighter in hue than a true hunters' green. In the same motion, it was draped over her lap. The surprise that washed over her must have reflected in her face, because he sneered when she drew it hastily upwards and around her hips.

It was not necessary to give her the blanket, but another teacher would have done the same. From him, however, it was unexpected and thus precious to her. She didn't release her grip on it even as he began to organize the potions with waves of his hand in their direction, setting them in five neat pairs.

"I have personally brewed these at the bequest of the headmaster and Madam Pomfrey," he said tersely, "I was prepared to let you sleep... I had not expected you to wake to receive them."

She blinked, _was he sorry for disturbing me?_

He spoke again, ignoring the surprised look she scrambled to wipe from her face: "If I may be so bold to ask, Miss Granger," his voice was unchanged from her memories of it as his face was not. Like they had for all the years she had known him, the words slithered out of his mouth and into her lap like vipers wrapped in gold foil. Although hardly more than a whisper, she knew that every word could be laced with poison, despite sounding quite delicious, "Are you experiencing any unexpected pain or discomfort?"

Her cheeks flushed when the dark wizard did not look away, but held her gaze far longer than was proper.

 _Blankets_ and _inquiries into my wellbeing? Is he being nice for a particular reason?_

 _Nice? He's not nice… he's scowling. That's not being nice! He didn't ask how you were feeling, technically._

 _Close enough, for him._

His eyes narrowed over her face when she did not respond as she was unwilling (rather unable) quickly enough. Sharp lips curled further into a sneer as he continued, "Have you suffered an injury to your brain or tongue as well as your magic and chest, Miss Granger?"

Hermione drew in a sharp breath and mumbled, "No, sir."

He sniffed impatiently. His lips grew taut once again, the line drawing further from his impatience.

"I am cold," she answered dumbly to appease him, then flushed, "Er, well, you already knew that."

 _Oh, Merlin, you're eloquent._

"Obviously," it was long, drawn-out, every syllable stretched into the next lazily, yet purposefully by his velvet baritone. She had heard him use that tone before—with Umbridge, when she had asked him a particularly dull question that he did not think required an answer other than such a dripping reply as the one he had just given her.

He hated stupid questions, but at least he had given her the same patience he had given Professor Umbridge—although she was not the High Inquisitor, he was willing enough not to snap at her. She couldn't take his job, but... somehow, this was a better form of respect. In every way, actually, because he did not do it out of obligation.

 _Perhaps, but would he even be speaking to you if he had known what you saw last night?_

 _Maybe... he didn't see me. Perhaps he did think it was a dream._

 _Why would he ever dream of you?_

The taunt echoed in her mind as she toyed with the thought that perhaps he had not seen… perhaps he would never know.

Rather than waste away from the thought, she elaborated further: "My chest hurts more than it did before… the wound is irritated, but I suppose that means that it is healing. That's what my Mum would tell me. There's numbness… here," she pulled the collar of her shirt shamelessly over her shoulder, tracing the outline of the wound over the bandage that protected it. His dark eyes pointedly did not leave her face to observe the motions she made with her hands.

Hermione flushed: did she have no shame? Of course, he was her professor, but he was still a man. She had never assumed he would ever be uncomfortable with seeing her body—that it would affect him at all. Although it very well hadn't and wouldn't—he _had_ stitched her closed, shoulder to hip, and perhaps had seen more of her than she wanted to know—she shouldn't have been so willing to reveal her body to him again. Her fingers trembled when she pulled the collar back towards its proper place rather than trace the length of it as she had planned, "… all the way around the wound, like a shell or echo. But there is soreness within the flesh. From what I have read, I think this is because of the potion—"

"I may not be a healer, Miss Granger," he interrupted with a scowl, "But I am certainly far more educated in magical injury and the aftereffects of healing potions, prescribed by myself, than you are. Thus your theories are unnecessary and unwanted. Furthermore, considering you have spent the majority of your recovery sleeping, you have not had the time nor patience required to conduct the research necessary to authorize the deduction of the nature of your current state of pain."

His was a voice that was both handsome and unnerving, that could deliver words both venomous and shattering, but it was a beautiful, masculine voice that made unexpected parts of her quiver more often than not. This was nothing new to Hermione; she had long ago discovered that whether his voice was harsh or hushed, she was captivated by every syllable. Admonished by the content, but also drunk at the sound of his speech, Hermione simply nodded.

He lifted one of the potions with a wave, "If you are uncomfortable, you may drink this promptly."

She was careful to read the label: it was an anti-pain potion she did not recognize. She was wary to swallow it so eagerly, having never been exposed to a drug of its kind before, and knowing all that she did about highly addictive substances…

"For Merlin's sake, Miss Granger," the professor said, "Just swallow the thing before it grows any worse. You'll not grow addicted with such a small dose."

She thought about glaring at him. However, she had been his student for years and unlike Harry, she knew that such an action would only cause her further irritation.

It was gone in one gulp: the liquid had barely filled the vial and tasted far less foul than she expected, sort of sweet, bitter, and astringent. Its effects wouldn't kick in for a while, but she was relieved to have taken it, despite the chalky taste.

The question was on her tongue promptly, hardly after it was swallowed, "Why is it that I can drink potions and my magical core won't overreact?"

He paused at the question, "Because potions do not interact directly with the magical body; they directly interact with the physical body."

She had thought as such. She chewed her lip, pondered whether she should thank him, or pretend as if she didn't know it had been him who had saved her. Yes, she had acted first, but he had carried her forward when her body had failed her... had known to let her body remain ripped rather than allow it to be magically sealed shut.

Hermione turned to him, "So wouldn't it have served Madam Pomfrey to treat my wound with dittany?"

"Not if she wanted to risk the effect it had on halting your magic, no," He answered, "Or the fact that your wound was much large in surface area." His eyes narrowed. Hermione had carefully worded her question so that she would not reveal that she knew it was him who had stitched her up, "As ugly as your scar will become, it was necessary and will be necessary for your unique… situation. That being said, it is natural during healing to choose the treatment that maximizes gain and minimizes loss… thus, Muggle stitches were a safe choice and more cosmetically pleasing than dittany."

After a time, she answered, "It is a unique situation, then? My magic—"

"Not unique," he corrected sharply, although not vehemently, "Rare. I've no doubt you've read of it yourself, in some shape or form, or you would not be alive to ask me redundant questions you already know the answer to."

Silenced by his irritable tone, she returned to her own thoughts.

Would he even care for her gratitude if he was so quick to dismiss her opinions?

Everyone wanted to be recognized for what they did… although some wanted to be recognized for the evil that they did, like Bellatrix Lestrange, she did not think that the wizard beside her wanted the same. He had power—she could feel it, had felt it for year, had heard it his voice during her very first potions lesson, and witnessed it in action when he flattened Lockhart in their second year. She had felt it when he placed his body between hers and a werewolf's and when he stood beside her now. Any fool wise enough could recognize it in him, and she knew he enjoyed it when others witnessed and acknowledge his power, as any Slytherin would.

But had anyone ever looked further to recognize anything else was significant about him? Had anyone pushed beyond the barbs to repay the favors that were due to him? In her opinion they were well-passed due; no one who laid down their life for a cause like the Order's, who subjected themselves to such misery, deserved to be overlooked as he had been by so many. Although he was probably the main proponent of his own damnation, she didn't believe for a second that somewhere, deep inside, he wanted to be admired, respected… loved for his sacrifices.

As someone who craved all those things herself, she could recognize it in another. They were far more kindred in loneliness than they were even in their injury. Although she would never say it, she was resentful that no one ever listened to her, resentful that it was that very notion that had caused her to lose the one thing that had saved her from a lonely, miserable, mediocre life. Magic had made her feel special… it had made her loneliness less harrowing. And now it was gone, because no one respected her enough to _listen_ to her. No one loved her enough to think she spoke out against them out of her own love of them.

Perhaps that was why she was always so eager to give Professor Snape a second chance, even before he had spared her. There were many ways to listen to a person… sometimes, all it took was asking yourself a simple question: "why?"

Just as no one asked why Hermione, their best friend, would warn them against performing a foolish action without the help of adults that had proven trustworthiness (in actions rather than words), no one she knew had ever asked why Snape was the way he was. They accepted that he was bitter, unkind, unlovable, and that was the end of it. He would always be hateful, spiteful, scowling, sour, twisted, and snide, and they would be consumed with hating him for it before they would ever ask him: why are you this way, Professor? And if anyone tried to look deeper, was bold enough to try to press further, he made certain they regretted it. But even if he did not, it was far too easy to hate him than even consider loving him.

Many Order members wondered why he was a spy for them, but never shook the suspicion that he was merely playing both sides for his own gain. But Hermione was unlike the others. She had the rare opportunity of seeing Snape's actions, rather than merely being subjected to his loveless, if beautiful sounding tongue. He could tear her apart with a single look—and had many a time left her crying with a handful of words—but would not hesitate to put his body between hers and a werewolf, or offer it as sacrifice in order to provide the side of the light with an advantage they sorely required. As much as each of the Order members detested him separately and together, none of them provided the same devastating efforts that he did.

Similarly, no student saw beyond his strict demeanor to the benefits that his reputation and mastery had on their education… their lives even. Brewing potions had great potential for volatile reactions—if children like Neville and Seamus, even Goyle, were allowed to perform in a classroom with a teacher like Flitwick, she doubted they would be alive today to finish their OWLs, let alone have the capability to not only brew potions, but understand them.

The Order, the students, the world could hide behind their mistrust of him, but she knew better. They were glad it was him, and not them—he deserved it, for all the hateful things he said, for putting them through the ringer verbally and emotionally. If anyone deserved pain, it was him, the bat of the dungeons, the miserable man who they couldn't fathom would even want happiness. They reserved their pity and grief for the ones who were kind, bold, or clever, and left him to his reap what he had sown.

If any of them were better people, they would have recognized Severus Snape for what he truly was: a man starved of love, of kindness, warped by the world into a figurehead to be hated, yet still willing to endure great pain in order to protect others. She had no other evidence that he was a good man, except the handful of experiences in her life to support that notion. But on more than one occasion, Severus Snape had gone against every expectation that was suspected of a man who was thrilled by darkness and fueled by hatred, and that was enough to convince her, a faithful Gryffindor, that he was worth every shot she could give.

He would not boast of any goodness; he couldn't, because he had a role to play. He'd always had a role to play… and he played it well, so well that he had fooled the world, had fooled her so many times. And therein lied the enigma that drove her curiosity: where did the ruse end and the man begin? Where was Severus Snape, the man and not the spy, the man and not the hated teacher, the man and not the dark wizard? How heavily did the mask fit to his face?

Was he so good at what he did that there was no mask at all?

"Since you are now awake, I will have words with you," he began.

She blinked, but nodded in deference.

"With your injury being as rare as it is, there is very little direct research that could assist your recovery," he continued with a glare when she did not respond, "Thus every… treatment will be experimental in nature. As the current brewer of this school, and being knowledgeable as I am in the mind arts and magical theory, the headmaster," he paused and frowned darkly, "has asked that I assist in your recovery, both with a potions regiment and… in any other way that can prove to be beneficial to you."

The professor continued without allowing her to cut in, "Because the difficult task of helping you retrieve your magic it falls to me," he practically snarled when he said that, but composed himself and continued, "there will be no room for negligence or sedition, I will not tolerate foolishness of any kind where it concerns my involvement in this matter. You are intelligent enough that I will expect you to understand what it means to keep your head down and to obey my orders as I give them. I will not be put in peril because you have decided to open your mouth to whine to Potter and Weasley and they have then decided to announce it to the entire school."

She nodded nervously, glancing at Ron. He was very much still asleep—so out of tune with the world that he couldn't feel the vibrating presence that was Professor Severus Snape.

His mouth was now fully disapproving, "I am well aware that you have a penchant for eavesdropping _,_ scheming _,_ and overall _recklessness_. I am, vainly, hopeful that someone of your caliber of intelligence would have learned a valuable lesson after the events that occurred at the ministry. After the threat of bodily and magical injury and the loss of life of a dear, _dear_ friend, it should be logical for your insufferable need to involve yourself in matters that are far beyond your emotional and magical capability to be quelled."

The black eyes burned against her cheek.

"If that is not the case, then be wary. I will not waste precious time and effort assisting in your… recovery, if you continue to act as irresponsibly as you have in the past. Without your magic, you are more than vulnerable to the Dark Lord, and there is little room for mistakes to be made in carelessness. I will not submit myself to further scrutiny over a witch that cannot control herself."

She nodded, her eyes still avoiding his.

The potions master reached out, grabbed her chin with fingers that were cold and hard, drawing it away from Ron's prone form. Although she wanted to avoid his gaze, the eyes that could pierce through her soul and pick out her every thought, her face turned fully to his. He forced her to look at him, squeezing her chin until she lifted her gaze to meet the heartless black.

The words of gratitude she wanted to shower him with were lost to her, even though they hovered on her tongue. Instead of speaking, she just stared at him, chewing her lip. His dark eyes followed to her fidgeting teeth for a moment, then drew almost instantly back to where they stared not quite in her eyes, but in the general direction of her face.

"You know my style of teaching, Miss Granger—while you are insipidly foolish, I cannot deny that you are quite… astute," he whispered, his face inches from hers, his hands cupping her chin roughly, "I needn't remind you what I value in a student—even considering you have failed to meet many, if any at all, of my expectations in the years you have been in my tutelage. It is important now, more than ever, that you begin to embody more control over your emotions and begin to listen to your mind instead."

Hermione's eyes widened. Her skin had pimpled from his touch. She was uncertain if it was because she had not felt his fingertips so intimately before, or if because his gaze was heavier than she remembered it ever being, even as a girl of eleven, and pushing into hers from a centimeter away. Professor Snape's taunted her reaction by matching it with his own, his black eyes growing wide to mimic hers, yet his mouth remaining austere and grimacing.

"As often as it does occur, I am not a wizard who enjoys to be crossed. While you very well might grow to become used to my presence, do not be foolish enough to think that you are privy to my secrets or my respect as a result. We are _not_ friends, or acquaintances, or master and protégé. I am your professor and my will and instruction is to be heeded thusly. Our future… proximity comes out of a necessity for discretion and my obligation to you as your teacher and to the headmaster as his employee, _not_ by choice."

 _He doesn't give a wit about you and yours. You're an obligation to him._

 _S_ he bit back the doubt that reared, avoiding his eyes by starting at the faint line that marred his cheek.

"For the sake of self-perseverance, I suggest you keep your affliction—and my involvement in helping you combat it—to yourself. The fewer who are involved in your care, the better chances you have of escaping any further scrutiny of the Dark Lord."

 _Who cares about me? I'm already in danger._

 _He does_.

 _The Dark Lord could kill him for sparing me even a second glance, even if Dumbledore had ordered him to assist me. If his master knew about me, I would be dead. But he's keeping it a secret… putting himself in danger._

 _For you._

Guilt made her stomach burn through her throat and she swallowed it down vainly. The professor's grip loosened slightly, but was not removed.

"Whatever magic that remains must be protected and not without great will can that be done. It is vital not only to your physical body, but to your emotional and mental well-being that you do not let it slip away—by foolishness or by lack of will. I fully expect that you will struggle, but do not mistake this as an excuse for me to be anything but demanding. I will not coddle you, as your head of house would. I will not dress you with praise or drown you with affection as Potter would," Despite her new-found admiration of him, for lack of a better word, it was instinctive to flinch when he loomed closer, towering over her threateningly, black eyes ablaze and face screwed into such a state that she could hardly recognize the features she had admired only hours before.

"I will not be kind simply because you are not at your best—I will not be kind simply because you _are_ at your best. I will not be kind at all. As far as I have been able to surmise, you lost your magic by your own foolishness. Foolish witches don't deserve kindness, even if I had any to give them, and I promise you, Miss Granger, that if you lack the resolve and discipline required to retrieve what little power you had, then when you fail, it will bear no mark on my own conscience."

His face did not relent as he lowered it centimeters from hers, glowering so close that his breath—surprisingly fresh, sharply peppermint—pressed into her own lungs, "Are we clear?"

She nodded. After a sweep of her eyes with his, he removed her face from his hands and slunk a comfortable distance away. She should have been relieved to be released, but she felt colder without his grip on her jaw. The blanket in her lap lacked any warmth compared to that of his touch. In spite of herself and him, she drew the wool up around her shoulders, curling within it despite the pain in caused her.

It smelt like him: bergamot and clove, hints of patchouli, the slightest tinge of copper and iron, earth and smoke. Her eyes widened as she pulled it up to her chin, only barely refraining from stroking her cheek against it. If there ever was a doubt in her mind that he was not, in essence, a man who faced the dark if only to keep his body between it and the light, the smell of the blanket he had provided for her removed it. Her eyes flew over the trim towards his long form, which was in front of the window. His profile was withdrawn from her view, everything but his prominent nose hidden beneath the dark curtain of hair. She knew he was looking out at the grounds, towards the sun.

Today he faced the light, leaving his back vulnerable to the dark… he was laying his luck beside hers, risking his life to not only protect her, but heal her. In a way, it was not much different when he had put his back to her and drove her away from Lupin the werewolf.

Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. She desperately wanted to reveal herself, her thoughts, to him, but that was not the way. He would not welcome her—not in a million years. She was an insufferable know-it-all, bushy-haired, eager, righteous, innocent… What made her deserving of Severus Snape, the man, when all she had ever done was complicate his already complex life?

 _Intent_ , her mind replied, _Intent is more important than any spell. With intent, a charm becomes a jinx, a jinx can become a hex, a hex a curse._

 _And what_ is _my intent?_

There was no clear answer to be had when he was looming in the window, distracting her from breathing properly.

He spoke once more, drawn out of his pensive thoughts, and luring her from hers with his velvet timbre, "My first task is to teach you Occlumency, so that you will be able to monitor your own magic and not rely on another—myself—to do so. There may come a time when I am unable to assist you…" her mind wandered to the "meetings" he was called to during the previous summer at Grimmauld, ones which he did not return from, "…and therefore it is imperative that you are aware of your own bodily function and magical limit. Only when you have mastered this task—only when you can hear your magic yourself will you be trusted with your wand."

Her fingers itched for the pale green vine wood, but inside she was uncertain. Harry had detested Occlumency with Snape… he hated being subjected to the man seeing his thoughts because he hated him. Hermione was adverse to it for other reasons; she was nervous what he would find there that concerned him.

"When you are not learning Occlumency, we will be conducting research. Once you have proven yourself, you will focus on learning to draw magic from talismans and we will begin to experiment with the method of expanding or retrieving your magic."

She opened her mouth to speak, "What methods are there?"

He did not nod, but his voice responded, "If I knew that already, Miss Granger, I would not be wasting away in the wing beside you, but preparing such a method. We will be forced devise them ourselves and experiment with our findings until, Merlin permits, one of them works."

 _If one of them even works._

Another part of her was more focused on his choice of words.

 _We_.

 _Our._

Admonished, she tugged the blanket tighter around her.

When he spoke again, his words directed towards the window physically, but in purpose towards her, "Miss Granger."

She hesitated when he failed to elaborate, turned to look at him. Somehow, she managed a shaky "Sir?" without stuttering.

He continued glaring at the window instead of meeting her eyes, "You faced twelve dark wizards and you will be left with a pretty scar and the barest of magical power. I'm perplexed that you are so willing to accept my assistance. You know what—who I am. What makes you think I am any different than them—that I would spare you over myself if it came down between us?"

She choked to provide an answer… how could she describe it, without revealing to him the crime she had committed the night before?

He turned his head only slightly, revealing the smirk that he wore that she was struggling to answer.

"I…" _Stop being a twit, and speak, Granger!_ "I trust you with my life, sir."

He made derisive sound and his lips twisted into an expression of disgust, "Why?"

 _Why... the perfect question to ask me._

She wasn't sure he was truly looking for an answer, but she gave it, "If you wanted me dead, I would be. If you wanted the Dark Lord to know, you would have already told him, and I would be dead soon, at the very least hunted. But you've chosen, albeit grudgingly, to help me, and have further saved my life more than you already have. And to answer your question, specifically… if there is anyone who could not only spare my life and keep your own, against all odds, it is you. You've done it before—"

"Done what?" He snapped, his eyes darting to hers angrily.

She hesitated, then said, "S-saved my life, sir—and yours at the same time. It's been… several times now. Almost every year at Hogwarts, probably, if only by the potions you've brewed, or actions you have made."

There was nothing but bitterness when he spoke next; it was shining in his eyes which glared at her from the three-quarter tilt of his face, "Contrary to what you've devised in that sentimental little brain of yours about my chivalric actions, there will be no collecting of the debt you claim to owe to me. If there must be payment, it will be in the form of staying out of my… personal affairs henceforth."

Hermione was silenced. She knew better than to speak out against him, even as her Gryffindor boldness willed her to speak her mind.

He continued, "I do not want to hear one peep out of your mouth about what you saw last night—nor will you act on any ridiculous plans for… befriending me—absolving me, as it were."

 _Last night… Oh, Merlin! He did see me._

He _heard_ you.

She struggled to speak, to find the words to explain, to excuse, and also straining to find the words she needed to support her stance or to accuse him of overstepping his bounds in the sanctuary of her mind.

She managed a simple, "But—"

"But, nothing, Miss Granger," he said darkly, turning his dark eyes to glare at her, "You will let the sleeping snake lie, or you will forfeit any help I would offer in retrieving your magic."

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

 _Let the sleeping snake lie… or let your magic die._

How could he make her choose between her honor and her soul? She floundered, torn, as he glared at her for an answer. It came in the form of a terse nod and a turn of her cheek fully away from him, towards the dark blanket that covered her body.

When the door slammed closed, she knew he was gone, and she felt instantly lost. Ron choked out of a snore when she choked out a sob.

"Oi, whatsit—'Mione? You okay?"

Hermione was too busy jumping up to run for the bathroom, where her tears would be swallowed, to hear him ask her what was wrong. Her chest reacted violently, the pain flaring all the way from her shoulder to her hip. When she sunk to the ground, blood began to pool, absorbed by the bandage, and she knew she had torn at least one stitch and pulled the skin within. It was hotter than her skin, painful and burning, and she felt it instantly, but was too overcome with emotion to care.

She only emerged when the wards within the wing began to shriek incessantly, altering the castle that Umbridge had made for her escape.

* * *

"I have quite a few jinxes in mind which that woman deserves to suffer under," the Head of Gryffindor House sniffed towards the surly Head of Slytherin House, hours after he had left the Hospital Wing, the second time. The witch added, "simultaneously for all eternity."

Instead of stomping (limping) back to her den alone after the incident, the witch had latched onto Severus like the leech she was, and bid him to assist her to her office. After the day of torture and half-exhalation at the hand of two separate witches, the grief that followed when he woke in the hospital, an hour spent relaying the information he had gleaned during his… visit with the Dark Lord to the headmaster, the second encounter with Miss Granger, and the excitement of Umbridge's escape, Severus would have rather have drowned himself in Bobotuber pus than partake in a social call within the witch's tartan splattered office. Minerva, however, was more than persistent when it came to pestering him than not. He'd discovered over the past decade that it was wiser to appease her for a half an hour over tea than endure her badgering for the entirety of dinner.

Currently, the demanding witch was smiling into her tea, keeping him hostage with menial conversation. She pursed her lips when he shifted uncomfortably, looking towards the door, and met his rolling dark gaze with a quirked, daring brow.

Severus fumed. He was exhausted, distracted, and in extreme pain. But each musing about the events that had led up to his precarious position in front of Minerva McGonagall, including the dawn-kissed, fallen face of Hermione Granger, was filed carefully away, out of view of the pestering witch. It would be necessary, considering he was being forced to lie to her, to withdraw from her more than he usually did.

"I will have to find a way to reward Peeves," the Deputy Headmistress mused into her cup. It was quite obvious that she was in good spirits by her posture and expression. Of course, not only was she free from the confinement offered by St. Mungo's, she was still half-amused at the whole event that had followed the toad's disgraceful exit from the grounds at the hand of their resident poltergeist.

The Head of Slytherin sneered, "The act was reward enough for the imp."

Minerva snorted, "But hardly what she deserved."

Severus could only agree. It had been amusing enough, if not truly sufficient, to see her practically tossed on her arse off the steps. The poltergeist had enjoyed it enough for them all, gleefully swatting the toad off the grounds and cackling all the while. Minerva had hobbled along after with a gleeful expression spreading across her lined face, following the raunchy specter to the edge of the grounds to send the witch off with the proper good-bye in the form of slamming the wards promptly shut to her forever.

Still, it did little alleviate him of his guilt over how he had treated Miss Granger… he was forced to frown at his own thoughts, knowing that he was delving into a part of himself he usually kept blocked at moments when he needed them to disappear into the shadows of his mind.

It was becoming a persistent problem, apparently. First he had lain stupidly at her hand, wantonly hoping for her touch as if it were ambrosia and he were a dying god, looking at her and thinking of his long dead mother, his long dead Lily, and comparing her to them… comparing her possible death to theirs. Then, rather than scorn her away from repeating those actions, he resolved to pretend she hadn't seen the worst of him, to ignore the song she had sung, to ignore that their eyes had met and he had heard her tender, bare thoughts.

He had woken up in the hospital wing from a deep, drunken, and surprisingly dreamless sleep, feeling lighter than he should have, and still smelling the vanilla and lavender of her skin. The event was undeniable when he saw the abandoned water basin at his head. After he had gathered his wits, he had fled for the headmaster's office. Naturally, he had planned on warning him of what had happened—warning the man that the girl was growing too curious of his nature, too eager to see him for what he truly was: a man with a mask, and that it was going to be the death of her. But the words never came. Severus was consumed with talks of his summons, and could not find the words to explain to Albus what had transpired the night before. The only conversation they had about Miss Granger had been the headmaster asking him—of all people—to take charge of her care.

As if that were a comfort to his already burdened conscience to know he was responsible of her recovery, as well as her life.

He had been fully prepared to ignore her forever, at the least, until the old fool demanded otherwise. He was tasked with training her to recognize her magic, to teach her Occlumency to protect herself (and him), to aid her as needed to find her magic. It was a foolish endeavor, he was certain, but he was absolving himself to it… damn that old bastard, he knew exactly what he was doing when he asked him to take on her care. Signing another lease on his own death to protect a Gryffindor brat.

But it was logical that he be involved, if not fully then partially. Pomfrey was inept where it concerned magical theory. Dumbledore himself could have done it—but wouldn't or refused to provide the time and elbow grease. How could he, when he was the face of the war, the opponent of the Dark Lord? It was Potter who had to kill him, but Dumbledore who orchestrated it all, who bore most of the world on his frail, senile shoulders. It irritated him beyond measure to know that the man put the girl so far from his mind—was so willing to endanger her by setting his spy to the task of her protection— when once this would have been at the forefront of his duties as headmaster. He knew the wizard was orchestrating the protection of dozens of families—including the girl's own parents—and simultaneously preparing for the war to come, vainly brainstorming how to prevent the tragedy of Potter's fate, and dealing with Fudge and the ministry's increasing incompetence.

But Miss Granger's affliction was a serious one; as a student under his charge, she deserved proper attention, not the divided one of a Death Eater turned spy ... who very well would be killed for assisting her. For blatantly lying to the Dark Lord about hiding her weakness. For caring for her.

When he'd left Albus' office after a heated argument (which he of course lost, since the old fool played the Lily card, once again), he immediately went to brew the potions she needed, to clear his mind. Still, even after he had calmed down, when he arrived in the wing he had had half a mind to shake the Granger girl awake, just to spite her and her nurse's prying. It would eventually be necessary to scare her out of whatever foolish thought process had led her to his bedside, to remove any idea of "repayment" from her mind—and he had very much wanted her to suffer for putting him in the position of vulnerability he had felt.

But as soon as he saw her, he couldn't ignore the soft, delicate, slack mouth, or the dirt that still stained her fingers from washing his hair clean. It was as equally as disturbing as seeing them coated in a thick layer of her own blood—no matter how clean they were, he would never forget her frailty and the way it had made him feel the same, or small kindness she had shown him and would again, or what it had felt like to slip into her mind. He was ashamed of it, but also not. In her mind, he had tasted redemption… a taste he had never thought he would sample, let alone crave as deeply as he did.

For a moment, he had observed her prone, gently sleeping form and felt a tendril of the peace she had given him hours previous, and wondered what it would be like to be kind to her. Would she spare him the same treatment if he were cruel? Had he truly deserved her company?

Even though he had labored to convince her to keep her mind to herself, after she had woken and he had both berated and threatened her, Severus knew that Hermione Granger was as headstrong and Gryffindor as they came. Some would say it was Potter who embodied the best of his house's traits, but he knew better. It was her; selfless to a fault. She was the witch who had gotten it into her head that House Elves deserved freedom and even when the sentiment wasn't shared (by the elves or her peers), showed no sign of relenting. She was, as he had always said, insufferable.

In light of recent events, her stubbornness was fortunate; she would need to be strong if she had any hope of "healing" her magic. Not only would she suffer, the witch in front of him would be devastated by the loss—perhaps more so than she would have if the girl faced death, rather than magical impotence. But where it concerned him, he would likely be forced to not only face his own demise, but be further burdened with hers.

And it was not a warm feeling.

"Will she even be brought to trial?" The deputy headmistress glared into her cup, amusement gone, "Or has all the evidence been destroyed?"

"All but the testimony of the students who suffered under the Blood-Quill, none of which will be able to once the headmaster convinces them to be quiet—for their safety, as he is considering that she will retaliate legally and illegally," he added, "It's little matter. Dolores endured a more fitting punishment at the hand of Miss Granger than by Peeves or the ministry would combined," he mused aloud with a crooked sneer into his tea, pushing the thoughts of their encounter away.

Although the Forbidden Forest incident proved amusing to all the staff, Severus knew Granger had very well had made a lifetime enemy out of Umbridge with her actions… and put herself on the radar of the Dark Lord later that same night for standing with Potter. The sneer was wiped from his face, replaced by a frown when he wondered what, exactly, the dark lord would plan for her, if he ever did get a hold of her, if his attention was brought upon the Muggleborn witch, and fixated with capturing her, if only to hurt Potter.

 _Or if he ever caught her in my mind_.

Minerva's choked on her tea, "Excuse me?"

He gathered his darker thoughts into their dungeons, although they'd left his still unsteady hands even shakier, and would more than likely return considering his growing lack of control.

"You hadn't heard how our inquisitor managed to get in hospital in the first place?" Severus sneered with a sharp wave, "Your swotty little lioness had the sense to lead our dear Dolores into the Forbidden Forest when she threatened Potter with some torture or another."

Minerva's stunned expression shifted to a prideful posture.

He continued, "Apparently, Miss Granger had met Hagrid's baby brother and was clever enough to lead her to his home in the forest so she and the imbecilic lot could go traipsing for the ministry. Unfortunately, she lacks as much tact as usual and they tread over centaur territory. The centaurs were already vexed about the giant situation from what the headmaster and Firenze explained… Imagine having to sidestep an untrained giant all year and then being called a half-breed on your own territory by _that_ woman, no less."

The Gryffindor's eyes glinted slightly, "Yes, _imagine._ "

He rolled his eyes dramatically, "I'm not in the mood for your pedantic mutterings, witch. If you have something to say, say it."

"Don't patronize me, Severus," she sniffed, "Or you'll find that your tongue will match the size of that beak on your face."

He sneered. She smirked.

Although she had not particularly cared for him when he was student, Minerva had done him a service that none of her colleagues had: fairness. For that, he had respected her more than all of his professors at Hogwarts. It didn't change the fact that she was Head of Gryffindor, that he thought her demeanor overbearing, her sentiments unnecessary... but as a student, he had little justice in his life and it was refreshing, to say the least, to have tasted a semblance of it.

He had long ago given up on being shown favoritism in any form. When he had been at Hogwarts, he had expected no change in pace. But she had never faltered in giving him the benefit of the doubt, even when he didn't deserve it. Even when it was all but certain he had turned fully for the dark.

Even when he was a proven Death Eater.

When he eventually left Hogwarts and took the Dark Mark, he had accepted that she and he would be enemies: he had, after all, done terrible things that she would never forgive him for if she were privy to them. His choices were as traitorous as they came to someone of her caliber of honor—whatever faith she had had of him was wiped clean when he took the Dark Mark and participated in that first revel.

When he committed his first murder.

After three years away from the castle, when he arrived to teach he didn't expect companionship from her. He could not expect even mutual respect after he had ignored the advice she had persisted towards him for seven years, after he had spat at her feet with the deeds he had committed. Thus he had arrived at Hogwarts to teach, a young Death Eater considering a turn of loyalties, expecting Minerva to belittle him, chastise him, and rub his nose in his failure. He had been fully prepared to rub what little he _could_ show for himself back: a mastery at nineteen, for instance, power and experience... and he was prepared to wield them all like weapons, if only to make her hate him more.

He deserved it, after all, to be detested for what he had done to Lily, for putting her in harm's way… for leading her to death's door.

Minerva received him with nothing but curt respect—did not ask him what lines he had crossed or why he was back at Hogwarts, when she knew very well he had been at the side of Lucius Malfoy. She welcomed him as a colleague stiffly, but with no words of anger or remorse… instead there was silence.

After the first Order meeting, she knew what his purpose was: to spy for both sides. After that, she did not ignore him further, but spoke to him and with him (if only in passing or when necessary). It was strained, because he wanted her to hate him and didn't know how to tell her that she very well should have. When she had seen him slip into depression after Lily's death, he would have gladly endured any "I told you so" she could have offered, would have endured the blame and damnation from her mouth.

But the smugness never came. She couldn't have known how involved he was with the Potter's deaths, only that he had seen the error of his choices, and was remorseful of a childhood friend's death at the hand of those he had followed. But still, she had tried to warn him, if only as a teacher to a troubled student, and when he did not heed that warning, the woman he had loved died.

The first years after the fateful Halloween were quiet between them, but not volatile (save during Quidditch and after Severus' house won the House Cup). She pressured him away from the tumultuous addiction he suffered, drove him to madness at times, but overall was a welcome constant in his life, as she had been in his childhood. As the terms passed, so quickly it seemed, they began to spend more time with each other, the war fading into the back of their minds. Minerva never minded his sour nature, not like the other professors did; she met him tit for tat in insults, and when he overstepped his bounds she would make certain that he knew it and correct him sharply. He would storm off, but when they met again there would be no ill will between them.

Many perceived their public bickering as rivalry, but it was far less than that. His very vocal qualms concerning the favoritism of House Gryffindor stemmed towards the headmaster more than the head of house… he was unable to speak out against the conniving man out of recognition of his power and influence, and thus his irritation transferred to Minerva. To her chagrin, he was equally partial towards his serpents as she was to her lions—and she dealt with it with as much grace as he did.

In the end, they both resolved to try to be as fair as they could be within the headmaster's restrictions, he protecting Death Eaters and she those who would support the effort against them (the Weasleys and Potter, usually), but both sharing their remorse with each other when it proved too demonizing to their professional disposition to continue. It had become a game to them, now, taking ridiculous amounts of points for trivial things, knowing it wouldn't matter in the end after Albus altered them, and laughing about their reactions and the gossip that would follow when they publicly bickered over it.

If anything, he cared for their candor. It wasn't friendship… but it was dangerously close. It was enough of one for him to wonder if he was putting her in danger, himself in danger, by growing too attached, or rather less detached.

It was enough of a friendship, after all, that he knew that Granger was her favorite student, and that she wouldn't take the news well if it ever reached her. Especially since he—emotionally stunted and cruel as he was—wasn't taking it very well himself.

He had to lie to her, too, even though she, out of them all, deserved to know about Miss Granger. She would care about her enough to do what was right, rather than what was smart, or easy. Hadn't the girl deserved at least that? Hadn't she deserved more than the cruel truths he would be forced to give her?Although he had promised her that he would not be kind, it did not mean he didn't want kindness for her...

 _It's just that I've none to spare at the moment,_ he lamented.

"What's that face for?" Minerva pondered, looking almost ill.

"It's nothing that concerns—" he began to say.

"Fine," she waved it away, as she was used to being pushed out of his personal affairs, "Then speaking of Miss Granger..."

For some reason, his throat went oddly dry.

 _Perhaps because she was rubbing her hands all over your hair and face yesterday and if Minerva knew that she would skin you alive._

"What about the chit?" He answered, carefully designing his face so that it was unreadable.

Minerva tittered, "Are you still irritated over her Arithmancy OWL as I suspect you are?"

Severus couldn't help himself but be baited, "I have a _mastery_ in Arithmancy. I'm not threatened by a fifth year examination score—"

"Seven points. She beat the highest score, _your_ score, by seven whole points," Minerva reminded him, "And tied your mark in Ancient Runes. She bested you in Transfiguration, by far, although she did not come close to the headmaster's, or mine. Missed the Charms mark by a breath of your own."

"But not Potions," he muttered under his breath. _Has she committed my exact markings to memory just to compare me to the chit? The meddlesome witch._

"Oh, it's a wonder why not?" She smirked, "Sabotage is not beneath _your_ house. Miss Granger's score was adequate enough, despite your stunting of her—"

"Stunting?" He sneered, "It's no fault of mine that the swot lacks the innate talent required for the—"

" _Exact art of potions_ ," the witch continued, but smirked back, "And still, it is merit enough that she was close as she without an inborn talent… or a properly devoted teacher."

"It was hardly significant enough to merit that notion," Severus noted dourly, "Average at best."

Minerva's eyes bulged and she rapped her hand against the table, "Average? A score well within the mean range for an Outstanding—"

"Exactly as I stated," Severus interrupted, " _Average._ "

She scoffed and sipped her tea with a cut of her eyes at him.

The witch could give two shits about anyone else's scores, but she had probably badgered anyone and everyone to expedite and release Granger's scores, and had enough time while in hospital to see those wishes come to fruition. He had received her owl Friday morning, glancing at it and tossing it away with an eye roll.

 _Yes, you tossed it away before you thought that it was a true shame that she had very well lost all the potential that had just begun to bloom…_

"Average, he says," the witch snorted, "You cannot deny that she reminds you of yourself—brilliant to a fault, smarter than half the professors here could even wish to be—and with the power to boot, if she were to have a bit more confidence."

He winced, and the witch perceived it as irritation.

She stabbed further, "I can't help but think of you when I see her so eager to absorb her textbooks like a sponge... You look at the written word the same way still, when you think no one's looking, your damn nose not a centimeter from the parchment. It wasn't _that_ long ago you were struggling yourself, trying to fill in all that you lacked in Transfiguration by carting around half the books on the subject from the library!"

He gritted his teeth. She wasn't making it easy for him to be elegant, or kind. He was already put off by the girl and her damnable curiosity, he didn't need more reasons to detest her at the moment. She had seen the most vulnerable part of him (at least physically)… But one could argue that he had seen the same; in fact, he'd stitched it closed.

Now she wanted to compare them. They were completely incomparable—in every aspect physically, emotionally, mentally. And yet he found himself agreeing with the matron, in his heart, that they did share an innate love of learning and books.

Hardly an uncommon trait, although they seemed to both be curiously defined by it.

 _Ruled by it_ , he reminded himself, _it led you where you are today. Your need to know every damn spell there was, even the Dark ones… A need to be the top of your class, to prove to the world that your Muggle father would not hold you back from being the most powerful wizard of your class—of all._

His want for power for long diminished… snuffed out in grief and kept smothered by his twisted honor. Hers, as far as he knew, had never existed. The same thirst for knowledge that compelled them both had not led her towards power he had once craved.

Her intent for knowledge was far, far different from his, as far as he was concerned, and that made them vastly opposite.

"Honestly, you would think you would be more taken with her—"

"Bite your tongue," he snapped, slamming his tea cup onto the tray. It was empty anyway.

"Oh, Severus, don't be so dramatic—"

He glared at her, "You know what it would mean for me to show favor of any kind to a Muggleborn—let alone _her_. Of all people, you know."

His mood had soured. She was the one person who could have understood exactly why he was forced, as it was not a choice he would have made under different circumstances, to diminish the girl's bright nature when it should have been honed and watered by him from her first day at Hogwarts.

She was silenced by his seething expression and the sound of wood pushed too sharply over stone. When he made to leave abruptly, she scoffed, "Where are you going—"

"To hell," he replied, slamming the door behind him. The portraits that lined the corridor outside of her office yelped in surprise when he swept down the hall with a furious expression, his robes weaving behind him like a trailing shadow of wings. Students scampered out of the line of his path when he approached and snapped at them with his piercing eyes.

After being trapped in the clutches of witches and their schemes and cruelty, he craved the solitude offered by his lab... the peace he could find brewing potions without disturbance of the world.

When he found himself not in his lab, although it was equally undisturbed, but in the security of his office surrounded in tomes, he cursed himself. He knew ful well it was not purely out of his insatiable need for knowledge that he Summoned a wide array of books to his lap and desk instead of setting to brew, as he usually did when he was trying to calm himself.

As he trailed the indexes of _Advanced Magical Theory_ , _Inane and Unusual Magical Ailments and Maladies_ , _The Magical Body: An Annotated Healer Mastery Edition_ , _Moste Mysterious Magicke,_ and _The Essence of Wizardry: Case Studies in Magical Theory_ , he did so with great care. The essays that he had yet to grade over the weekend were forgotten, as well as any mail that had accrued, and his urgent need to cut, dice, warm, and brew was stifled as he scribbled notes in margins with his nose almost pressed to the paper.

He was not convinced that it was not the girl, but the condition that intrigued them, although a more foolish man would have allowed himself that white lie. But it would not do to lie to himself, after all, if he wanted to keep her from the clutches of his brothers and master, or dear Bella. It would have been much easier to suffocate the feelings as they arrived, rather than face them silently, all at once, as he delved head first into every theory he could find to save her.

He couldn't lie to himself: not when her lullaby was in his throat as he worked, haunting him whenever he closed his eyes. After all, in her song, he had tasted redemption… a taste he had never thought he would sample, let alone crave as deeply as he now did.


	5. Fire and Ash

**A/N: At long last, Chapter Five. This one was a pain in the butt to write, mostly Hermione's part. I'm still worried it won't translate properly, but alas... here we are again. Thank you, all of you, for your beautiful, moving reviews. They humble me, truly. It's all for you (and Jo, of course, the best muse of all!)**

* * *

Chapter Five  
Fire and Ash

"Are you sure you're going to be alright?"

Hermione felt extremely overwhelmed by the glaring green eyes of her best friend. Every shift of movement was met with a critical frown by the messy haired wizard, who proceeded to send her an intensified stare, and this did nothing to comfort her, despite him having been repeatedly told by the nurse that she was in need of peace and quiet.

His freckled sidekick was torn between being as equally worried and trying to keep the peace… or at least, to keep Harry's emotions from getting the best of him. His blue eyes fluttered between avoiding hers guiltily and keeping Harry within a comfortable distance, just in case he decided to let his temper boil over as he had consistently for the past year.

"I'm going to be fine!" Hermione replied tersely, with a slightly exaggerated sigh, "Honestly, you're both going to miss the train if you keep ignoring what I'm saying to you; It's- Nothing!"

The two of them were all packed and ready for the train, as were the rest of the students of Hogwarts. For all she knew, her things were still strewn about her dorm, hopefully untouched by her roommates. Harry, obviously, was not taking the news that she would not be accompanying them on the train well. She had planned to tell him the night before, but the nurse had turned all company away after she had emerged from the loo, bleeding profusely through her bandages.

She was the only thing keeping them from boarding it promptly, although they should have been at the station a half an hour before, if they wanted a good seat. Once they finally heeded her, she and her stupid magic-less body were going to be alone in the castle (at least, emotionally). As guilty as she was about keeping them behind, she was more envious than anything else that they got to go and she was forced to stay and resentful that they weren't enjoying their freedom as she wished she could.

But, once again, she was a contradiction of emotions. Even though she was feeling rather spiteful, she also was quite aware that she was going to go mad with worry for them. It was somehow different than the worry she expended for them over the previous summers, perhaps because she had to divide her attention between trying to keep them in her thoughts and dealing with her own problems.

 _More like avoiding your own problems_ —

 _Hush it!_

"Hermione, I'm serious—what are you going to do in the castle alone all summer? Just lay in the bed and read?" Harry's green eyes were raking over her from head to toe, and his mouth was frowning deeper now. She knew that face… he thought she was lying—and she was, sort of. But she knew him better than he knew himself. She wouldn't be fooled into telling him anything she didn't want to-not again.

"It's not going to be _all_ summer," not if it could be helped, "Honestly, it's just a minor complication," with major consequences, "nothing to be torn up about. If I have to lay in bed and read—"

"—Hardly a punishment for her, Harry—" Ron interjected.

She sent him an annoyed glare, "Then I'll do it gladly, for the sake of my health."

Madam Pomfrey had distanced herself from the group, but was now hovering closer, her eyes fixed on the hands of the clock, which were nearing the departure time of the Hogwarts Express with every tick. The bushy-haired witch caught her eye and knew that it would not be long before she took over the task of shooing her two best friends away. That would only increase Harry's edginess—she silently pleaded with the mediwitch to let her deal with it, at least for a little bit longer.

With a pointed sniff, the nurse crossed her arms and nodded tersely.

"You need to get going," she reminded the stubborn Gryffindors with stern look she hoped was as intense as the ones she usually gave, "Or we'll lose house points!"

At that thought, Ron cleared his throat and nudged Harry's arm, but the messy-haired wizard wasn't budging... not even for his other best friend.

 _Now is not the time to be critical, Harry! You need to go home to the Dursleys—or you won't be safe._

 _Hogwarts is safe enough. You'd be less miserable with Harry for company._

 _But not safer than blood magic—nothing is safer than that._

"We shouldn't leave you," he decided darkly. In that moment, she was certain that nothing could move him. No amount of pleading or crying or begging or lying would deter him from her side.

Instead of feeling grateful, however, she was resentful. He had no idea how close she was to losing it with his temper and moodiness and overall lack of logic. She knew that he had just lost Sirius, but if he had just listened to her, that could have been prevent. If he had just trusted her…

But he didn't trust her enough to listen to her then, so why would he now?

She could feel her body responding adversely to his twisted expression and scrutinizing eyes and was opening her mouth to say something snippy, but was interrupted by Madam Pomfrey, who clucked her tongue and stepped forward, "Mr. Potter, Miss Granger is perfectly capable of healing without you crowding her bedside. Do you doubt my abilities to assist in her recovery?"

"No, but—"

Her straight nose crinkled and her mouth pinched, "You are not only breaking school rules, but you are affecting my patient's state of mind. I suggest you make your last—peaceful—goodbyes before you lose house points for the next term and are served with detentions with Mr. Filch! Or perhaps you would be better served in a detention with Professor Snape, to help the potions master brew that which you and your friends have depleted my stores of with your antics?"

Harry's eyes flashed in that way they did before he was going to have a major outburst. Hermione knew he was still on edge from Sirius—and Cedric—and she opened her mouth before he could say anything rude to the nurse, "Harry, please don't!" She was sharp, although it hurt to be unkind to him, "I don't need anybody coddling or you blowing up at me and Madam Pomfrey. I just need time to heal—there's nothing else to be done. Getting mad won't help it either..."

Although he trembled with the anger, he somehow managed to reign it in. For a moment, he stood, tense, round of shoulders, screwed of face, and then he was relaxing, his eyes closed, breathing through his nose. Ron was staring at him with lifted brows, leaning away as if to prepare for the blowback he had expected. Hermione, too, found that she had leaned into her pillows, hunched her knees up slightly to protect her.

When his eyes burst open, wide green, he expelled a frustrated breath, then began to speak, "Can't Snape—"

" _Professor_ Snape, Harry!" Hermione corrected tersely.

He sighed again, this time more curt than the last, " _Professor_ Snape can't brew you anything?"

"No, Harry," she answered, "It doesn't always work like that. My wound won't respond to any potion or spell… I just need some time, as Madam Pomfrey explained earlier, for it to heal the Muggle way."

 _It's not a complete lie… but it still feels like one._

Her anger had left her as quickly as it had come, but her heart felt even heavier. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't. If she did, Harry would know that she was not as well as she was saying that she was. Merlin, even Ron would know if she let the tears flow. So instead of balling her face into the blanket, she stuck out her jaw and made face, "Please, Harry, I need you to go before you get in trouble."

"I don't give a fizzing whizbee about points or detention," he replied, setting his chin in an equal stance of stubbornness, "Especially not after Umbridge."

She quivered... that wasn't called for. When he saw her lip quiver, he hesitated.

"I don't understand. Why can't we all stay with you until—"

"You know very well that you have to go to the Dursleys, Harry," she answered, "Dumbledore said—"

He gave her a pointed look—eyes darting to the nurse who was hovering, hands on her hips—and she lowered her voice.

She frowned, "You know what he said."

"Yeah," he answered with a shrug, "But—"

"It won't be that long, you worry-wart," Hermione interrupted him. Ron was now sitting on the bed at her knees, peering over an old copy of the Quibbler, pointedly trying to stay out of it and distract himself from being pulled into either side. She knew that he was feeling guilty about what had happened to her and that he had been able to be released when she hadn't, but also knew that if he missed the train, his mother wouldn't let him live it down for years. "I'll be at the Burrow before you know it."

 _Silly Ronald_ , she lamented; his ears had grown pink at the thought and he had lifted his eyes from the printed pages to meet hers. She pleaded with him silently—for once in their lives, she wanted him to take her side. The seas of blue were quickly dashing away, towards Harry. He cleared his throat.

"C'mon, mate… you heard 'Mione. We promised we would listen to her more, didn't we?"

 _Thank Merlin_ , she could have kissed him then and there.

When Harry didn't uproot from his brooding posture and Ron did nothing further, she sighed, "I'm _fine_ , Harry!"

"No, you're not," he answered, but he lifted his hands in exasperation, "Fine! Fine. I'll go… but only if you promise to owl me if you need me. I'll find a way back, you know I will."

Madam Pomfrey made a choked sound of disapproval, but he ignored her and lowered himself towards Hermione to hug her, despite looking defeated.

"Don't be mad at me all summer," she pleaded with him into his ear, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. He didn't squeeze her tightly, but his arms were still firm, "You know I'm right."

"I know… and you know you can tell me anything," He whispered to her once he was close, "I won't tell Ron if you don't want me to."

"It's nothing!" she whispered back, "Honestly, I just need rest—"

"Right," he interrupted darkly. She didn't let him slip out of her grasp, even though it hurt to squeeze him as he had tried to shift away. He stiffened when she pulled him back, but relaxed quickly when she made no move of letting him go, instead clung to him as tightly as she could without crying out in pain. Even though she had been pleading with him to leave it be for a half hour, she didn't want him to leave her at all and her body betrayed her logic when she gripped him for longer than she had planned.

 _Just tell him_.

 _I can't… I can't—there's more important things for him to worry about. I'll tell him when I'm better… when he's stronger._

 _If you get better. If he gets stronger._

 _If…_

When he pulled away to kiss her cheek her voice threatened to crack. She sighed in exasperation and her words came out more sharply than she had planned, "Please, Harry, be safe!"

"I will," he promised, glaring at her out of the corner of his eye.

She nodded and inhaled the scent of him: soap and something grassy as he released her. She hoped he wouldn't see past her pinched expression to the despair that was eating away at her gut, "I mean it, Harry James Potter!"

"I mean it, too… Usually," he shrugged innocently and sent her a warming smile. It didn't meet his eyes, but it was enough to make her want to bow her head in shame for lying to him, "… since you're here, you'll keep an eye on Snape for me?"

She bit her tongue from chastising him. Although a breath away from saying "Professor Snape", once again, she refrained. His mind and heart were fragile… perhaps more than hers was, and if his temper tipped over the edge so would hers and she wasn't sure she could hold back some of the darker, resentful thoughts swimming in the back of her conscience.

He would never forgive her for them and she would never forgive herself for losing him.

"He isn't a specter like Professor Binns who floats back into the walls when we leave," she said tersely, "He probably has much more important things to do with his summer than waste away in the castle."

Harry snorted, "Yeah, right—important things like bending the knee to Voldemort."

Ron grimaced and they were silent for a moment, a circle of close friends preparing to be divided once more, dreading all the thoughts and feelings that followed the mention of that particularly daunting name.

"We'll be safe with the Order and you'll be safe in the castle," Ron said wisely when she frowned at him, although he didn't look convinced of it as he should have. "'Right, 'Mione?"

He stood awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head and fidgeting with the collar of his shirt where the abrasion from the brain had been cleared away. Those clear blue eyes were looking at her with a strange expression on his face, as if he were just now looking at her after not having seen her for weeks.

"Right, Ronald," she answered, shivering slightly when he lowered himself towards her. He didn't wrap his arms around her as Harry had. Instead the long, freckled limbs hovered around her, unsure of how to settle against her, twitching when she lifted her hands to adjust their position.

"Sorry," he muttered when she pulled his elbows down with squeezes of her hands so that his hug was more secure, "Don't want to rip your… skitches."

"Stitches," she said with a sigh, "Like stitches of a shirt, Ronald!"

"Er," he nodded. His ears were still red, "Well, you know me. Forgetful."

He tightened his arms only slightly around her. She realized then and there that she had no idea how she truly felt about him, if the butterflies she had felt would return or were merely on hiatus, considering she felt none now even though his musky sandalwood scent had replaced Harry's. She didn't deny that he had grown handsome in the past year, taller and fuller, less gangly. But despite the sharpness of his long face and the appealing curve of his mouth, he was just… Ronald. Silly, carefree, jealous Ronald.

Shallow, forgetful, dense Ron, her best friend, who always managed to mistake her as someone she wasn't and whose similar interests consisted of their love of the Boy Who Lived and their penchant to follow him into trouble. It was not the first time she had wondered if they would be friends without Harry to bind them together, nor would it be the last.

Still, she wondered how silly it was that the smell of him, musky and also, surprisingly, faintly grassy, was comforting in a way like Harry's, but also something slightly more. She had thought, once, that she had liked him in a special way—after all, they were so different, and opposites were proven to attract. In her first year, she had hoped that his carelessness would rub off on her in good ways, allow her to loosen up and live, but so far they had just driven her batty and left her relatively empty handed. His lack of studiousness had left her breathless-and not in a good way-on multiple occasions. But she found herself unwilling to think less of him. After all, he was selfless, brave, and noble, as much as he was everything else.

After a short time, Ron pulled away from like Harry had. She hadn't even noticed she was clinging to him so tightly, but when he removed himself, she had to hide the sharp cry of pain that had caught in her throat from the pressure on her chest. It came out in a squeak, which made his face turn a violent shade of red and his eyes widen.

He noticeably couldn't look at her again, but instead was glancing towards the door nervously. It was for the best that he was eager to leave… she was looking rather confused about the feelings she had thought she had begun to develop for him and had just as quickly disappeared in a puff of smoke. There was one positive to her being confined to Hogwarts: the distance would do them well this summer. She would need it to sort out all of her mismatched thoughts.

"WEASLEY! POTTER!"

"Oh, Merlin, that's McGonagall... we've missed the train, Harry!" Ron bemoaned in a high-pitch voice she had not heard in at least a year, "Mum's going to murder us!"

Harry shot him a look and began to tease him, but his words were drowned out when Professor McGonagall, her face pinched into distaste and her eyes bulging at them, appeared in the threshold. She immediately snapped out orders, "Fortunately, Mr. Weasley, you have not missed the train— But so help me, there will be a detention with Filch for each of you on the first day of term if you miss that last carriage!" She said darkly, "Gods protect you from your mother, Mr. Weasely, if you do not arrive on that platform at three sharp. My job will take care of itself in her capable hands."

"Professor—" Harry began to say. Ron abandoned him, rushing past the professor shortly after she had mentioned his mother.

"Zip it, Potter. It would be best if you kept pace with Mr. Weasley before I lose my last shred of patience."

Harry glared at her, then back at Hermione. His jaw was set, as if he were going to disobey. She pleaded with him until he spun on his heel to follow Ron out of the wing at a jog, his bag bouncing behind him.

When he disappeared through the threshold, Hermione felt slightly abandoned. She had been begging him to leave for an hour and now she wanted to cry out for him to come back. There were two powerful, well-trained witches in the wing for company at the moment, but she had never felt more alone or unsafe in her life.

In that moment, she regretted agreeing to stay at Hogwarts. She yearned for the comforting arms of her mother, for her soothing touch over her forehead as she stroked back her hair, and for the warmth of her bed in London. Life was becoming far too difficult without her mother there to advise her and it was only bound to get worse with time.

 _You'd only make her sad,_ her conscience reminded her.

 _I don't care,_ her heart lamented, _I miss her. I miss Mum._

She wanted to cry, but McGonagall was still there and she didn't know whether or not it would be proper to explain the truth to her. Had Dumbledore told her? Would he?

Her thoughts drifted to Snape and she lowered her gaze to the throw around her hips… _The fewer that are involved with your care, the better chances you have of escaping any further scrutiny of the Dark Lord._

 _More than likely, not, then..._

 _Would you have wanted her to know?_

Hermione didn't know. She stared dejectedly towards the window rather than meeting the head of house's waiting gaze.

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, "Miss Granger, I know you are ill and would rather have your friends for company, but—"

"No, I understand," Hermione interrupted, "Sorry for interrupting, but I understand, madam. It doesn't change that I will be… lonely in the castle, but I am not resentful that they have to leave me behind."

The witch's hardened gaze softened slightly, "That is very wise, my dear. Although it is little consolation, an order member has been sent to intercept your parents and explain your predicament in person to them, so they will be able to understand the situation fully and be allowed peace of mind when you do not arrive on the platform."

She winced, "Which order member?"

The witch raised a brow, "The headmaster explained your predicament to Mr. Weasley, the eldest, I believe."

Hermione nodded, "Thank you, I was just curious because they are shy people."

 _At least it's not Lupin… or Mrs. Weasley._

"No matter. Professor Dumbledore has also asked for me to make sure that you are aware that the password to his office is 'Chick-o-Stick', should there be a need of him," the woman continued, "As your head of house, I implore you to heed the instruction of Madam Pomfrey and give your body the rest that it needs."

The nurse scoffed from the sideline, prompting Professor McGonagall to grit her teeth, "Furthermore, I wanted to relay my condolences that you will be forced to spend your summer bedridden and to remind you that you can occupy yourself with your studies... as I no doubt expect you have already begun."

Hermione nodded absently. The stern-faced witch looking more winded now that her face was less flushed from shouting and the young offenders had scurried along. Despite her grace, she was leaning heavily on her cane.

"Minerva—"

The head of Gryffindor lifted a sharp hand and sent an even sharper glare towards the nurse, who was lifting her wand instinctively to cast a diagnostic, "Don't start, Poppy. I'm fine."

"You should be resting," the nurse replied with a narrowing of eyes, "It doesn't hurt to take your own advice, you know, Madam Deputy."

"Unfortunately, for this school," the witch said, "The headmaster has agreed on that front. Fortunately for you, Poppy, I am being banished to my manor for the remainder of the term— I do make a terrible patient, after all."

Madam Pomfrey rolled her eyes, "Yes, I had heard through the grapevine you gave those poor Mungo's nurses a ride for their Galleons."

Hermione was almost amused by the Gryffindor witch's sniffing through her nose, "I wouldn't have been so snippy if they would have just let me be-it was a handful of stunners, not a deadly curse, for Merlin's sake."

"As you say," the nurse relented, glancing nervously at Hermione.

McGonagall's gaze followed. The girl was busy pondering her blanket to notice the parallels of her situation, then returned to glare at the hand that gripped her cane, "I don't know what's gotten into Albus, Poppy. It's as if he's forgotten that he is not the only administrator of this institution... as talented as the wizard is, I doubt he could handle catching up to the paperwork that was left in the mere days I was absent, let alone the piles that will be left after the fiasco a la Umbridge. He'll be owling me back in a fortnight, just you wait, to prepare for the next term. 'Oh, Minerva, I've found myself swamped with meetings... could you possible take care of the Board of Governors meetings for the next three months?'"

Madam Pomfrey smirked, "I'm sure, Minerva. Won't it be nice, however, to let him flounder for a while and rest a bit?"

"He's always floundering! I swear, just this morning…"

Hermione was removed from the conversation, although they had not dismissed her from it. She was focusing on her blanket, trying to retain her emotions into the tiny box she had built for them, trying to grasp at the last bit of sanity she had.

As if it could anchor them with it, Hermione clutched the emerald blanket further up her chest, pressed it hard to her cheek. She was certain she would have gone mad, just lying there, shivering, her chest screaming after she had split it back open, if it weren't for the blasted blanket keeping her warm.

The wool was so much warmer than any of the other blankets, the jumper Ginny had brought her, or the knobby socks that Ron had grudgingly forked over. It was truly odd—the thing had come from the very man who had put her in such a state of irritation that she had locked herself in the loo. Perhaps it was her mind playing tricks on her, making the smell, both intoxicating and soothing, affect her sense of temperature. It was a powerful organ, after all... she had heard of stranger things.

Still, despite the pain she felt after irritating the wound with her careless actions, the spice and smoke and the weight of it had lulled her, almost magically, to a slumber not unlike the one she had been woken from the morning before. Oblivion was much preferred to the nightmares that had plagued her that first night… even more so when she woke from it smelling like the combination of spice and smoke, feeling drunk and warm.

"Forgive me, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall said suddenly.

Hermione jerked awake… she had drifted into sleep, once more, drawn into it by her sadness and the aromatic length of cloth.

"I have every confidence that you will recover before the first of July. That being said, do not hesitate to owl me if you find the headmaster is negligent in his hospitality, as he tends to be in these matters. I have my own bags to pack, now that those two are accounted for, and I will leave you in the capable hands of Madam Pomfrey."

When she was at the threshold, she sent Hermione a lingering look; her eyes were soft and warm, "Get well soon, Hermione."

Hermione found herself smiling fully back, "You too, Professor McGonagall."

She had planned on settling back into the blankets, drifting towards oblivion, but the nurse had invaded the comforting bubble around her by pulling the blanket back.

Hermione labored to sit up, wincing and shivering as she did. The absence of wool made her strangely exposed, but she wouldn't dare pull it back up over her lap.

"I hope you have learned your lesson," the witch said as she procured the first concoction, "You're lucky I am trained to fix the damage you did with your little stint in the loo."

"I slipped," Hermione reminded her.

"Hm," the nurse said, obviously skeptical.

Hermione took the potion and threw it back, grimacing after she did, and wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

"The magic will reject them soon enough," Madam Pomfrey offered kindly, "And then we can heal you properly and you won't have to worry about 'slipping'."

 _At this rate, by the time my body rejects them, as any healthy magical body would, I'll be a squib or have torn myself completely in half being an emotional idiot._

She swallowed that thought with a heavy swig of the next potion. It burned her throat, but she kept it down by pressing her sleeve into her mouth. Her mind was calculating quickly, drawing conclusions from the evidence she was presented. If what she had read were true, her body should have responded to the Muggle medicine by now.

After she recovered from the thought, she asked Madam Pomfrey, "Will I have to wait until then to begin my lessons with Professor Snape?"

The nurse didn't meet her eyes, instead stared at the next vial that she offered, "When I decide that you are physically well enough, you will begin your lessons… that will not necessarily be when your magic rejects the stitches."

Her face told Hermione all she needed to know… the guilt was poorly hidden.

"What is the possibility that my body will not reject them at all?" the girl wondered—it was not accusatory, merely inquiring, despite already knowing the answer.

The nurse pursed her lips, and urged her to swallow the next potion. When she had, Madam Pomfrey answered, "It is not a slight possibility, but Professor Snape himself had every confidence that it would occur. It's of little matter whether they do or not—I can heal the wound myself with magic promptly if needed. But the combination of stitches and spells will not leave a pretty scar in their wake."

Hermione swallowed… who cared about scars?

Still, a vain part of her was averse to having a line of her chest being marred in such a way. Although Professor Snape endured his entire back being what it was without any complaint, she didn't think she had the confidence do the same.

 _Wait,_ _he_ had confidence _in my recovery?_

 _Of course he does! Would he help you if it were hopeless?_

 _Probably not. He is a practical person..._

 _Exactly. Get your head out of your arse, Granger! Didn't he ask for discipline? You can't sleep your problems away, cuddled in a Conjured blanket! Do something worthy of his respect, stupid girl._

 _"_ Wouldn't it be wiser to just seal the wound with magic?" She asked suddenly, "To prevent the risk of infection and…" she flushed, "in the case of further accidents?"

The nurse hesitated, "Perhaps, but..."

Hermione shook her head, "Please, I want it. I don't want to wait. I want to begin my lessons now."

"The scar will be irremovable," the nurse began, "No cosmetic magic will be able to hide it nor remove it."

Hermione met her eyes determinedly, "I don't care about the scar! If I want my magic back, then I can't just lay here waiting for my body to catch up. I'm asking you to seal it... I can ask the headmaster or the potions master to do it, if you won't."

 _Gryffindors,_ Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips in distaste. "As you wish, Miss Granger. Don't come crying to me when you are displeased. The damage will be permanent."

"I know, I'm prepared for it," The rest of the potions were swallowed hastily and in silence. She nodded absently when the nurse asked her if she was comfortable. The girl seemed to be deep in thought for a moment, before she lifted her chin defiantly and met her gaze, "I'm ready."

Madam Pomfrey frowned and tried to find the words to deter her from her decision, but as an experienced medical witch she knew that it would be the best course of action. From what she knew from her brief conversation with the headmaster, Severus could detect her magic. Thus, there would be no need to wait for the signal the rejection would have offered that she was gaining her strength. Although it had not been explicitly said, the headmaster doubted that if it hadn't occurred already, it would not occur at all. She had tried to keep it out of her mind, but now…

The girl had probably come to the same conclusions as Albus had, considering her intellect and thirst for knowledge.

"This will be painful," the nurse warned her, finally accepting of her resolve.

After the girl removed her clothing and shivered in front of her, she produced a potion with her wand and offered it. The girl looked at it, and shook her head, drawing her arms up to cover the exposed parts of her, despite the nurse having been privy to it many times before.

"Miss Granger—" she began to argue, her eyes averting the girl for the window.

"I want to feel it," she said with a huff of embarrassment. She closed her eyes, but the nurse could see the emotions on her face: furrowed brows, a scrunched nose, a slack mouth—despair, "I want to remember what it feels like—I _need_ to remember."

"Why?" The mediwitch blurted.

When the eyes opened, they were clear amber, darkened with Gryffindor tenacity, "Because my magic will be lost if I don't. I need the pain to remind me what I'm striving for. I need more than a scar… I need the memory of it."

The nurse was silent as she pressed the girl into the bed and drew her wand down the length of the wound, the stitches vanishing as she did. The wound sizzled when she pressed the tip to it, and Hermione couldn't help but cry out when the flesh began to mold together. It was fire all over again, fire that made her brain erupt with alarm and despair all at once, Her shoulders jerked involuntarily, but the nurse had restrained her (thankfully).

Tears spilled as her skin was spell-cauterized together, but she did not cry out again. Weeping would not save her from the searing pain of her flesh being pulled tighter together—tighter than the stitches had—melting and fusing both divided pieces into one.

Despite the pain, there was no remorse or regret. She knew it would only make her stronger, both in resolve and in essence.

She was a witch, after all, and as unfair as it was, she would need to earn her magic back if she wanted to remain one. If she had to be a witch forged in fire, so be it.

* * *

While his students were filing for the train, Severus was looming in his office, gathering the last of the completely graded potions to be destroyed or sent to the Hospital Wing. He had returned to solitude after overseeing the departure of House Slytherin from their dorms for the first hours of the morning and was thoroughly exhausted from it.

After double checking all of the dorms and seeing the majority of the first years into the first of the carriages, he left the rest of the coordination to the prefects. Being the head that he was, he fully expected the older students to know the proper procedure. His serpents, in turn, knew he would be cross if any of them ended up getting left behind. For the most part, they didn't dare cross him; as much as he was forced to favor them, they had grown to fear him as much as the rest of the houses did. Severus preferred it this way—he already had enough headaches, he couldn't imagine the ones he would have if he had to manage the absentminded Hufflepuffs.

Not long before the train was set to leave, a bell chimed overhead signaling there was a presence requesting access through the wards in the corridor. He frowned and waved a wand over the research devoted to Miss Granger's condition so that the books disappeared. His wand remained brandished when he strode towards the entrance of his office, despite the fact that whoever waited had provided a password, hinting it was staff or a prefect of his own house.

He let the heavy door swing open before the knock could sound, the light of his wand-tip flashing into the squinting face of whatever student was unlucky enough to have disturbed him at such an inopportune time.

"Draco." He pondered, lowering his wand slightly.

"Paranoid as ever, Uncle," the boy said with a roll of his eyes, but it was lost in the disheveled state of his dress and demeanor.

The pale, pointed nose of Draco Malfoy seemed slightly redder than normal and his eyes were bloodshot when they blinked at the shining tip of his head of house's wand. His robes were rumpled over his weekend clothes (pressed spring suit), and his usually prim hair had been shoved back hastily. His cheeks were not blotchy, so at least he had not been crying recently, but more than likely had not slept well the night before. But anyone with eyes could see he was emotionally distressed.

He had no idea where he had inherited those sensibilities. His mother was an ice queen, like Severus' had been—it was pureblood etiquette, apparently, for the women to be removed and unaffectionate. Narcissa Malfoy had never particularly cared for Severus, even though Lucius valued his input and friendship. Her compassion for him during his… burning stemmed out of duty to her husband's affection for the poor, half-blood wizard. Any other interactions of respect between the youngest Black and Severus were out of obligation to his position as a Death Eater.

Narcissa's husband was perhaps a tad more emotional than she was—prone to fits of anger and pride, at least. In his age, Lucius would never be caught displaying such signs of despair as his son (although he had come close in his youth and where it concerned his old rival, Arthur Weasley). Draco could by icy, but was also prideful and spiteful. Even more strangely, he could also show great emotions of compassion that his mother and father had never been afflicted with, at least at the beginning of his life.

As a small child, he had been loving, or at the very least, admiring of his godfather… tending emotions in Severus he had not known he had been able to possess. It truly was enlightening, the adoration of a child; but Severus had none of his own and Draco's had lasted so fleetingly he sometimes wondered if it had been real. The sweet boy became a little monster soon enough, corrupted by his expectant father.

Lucius had always made it out that they were better (a common notion of the Noble and Ancient houses), somehow, than other purebloods and certainly all wizards. Draco, foolishly, had believed his father and took it to heart. Because of this the younger Malfoy was perhaps too eager to be seen as powerful by the other houses, as if that would ensure his superiority over those who laughed at him behind his back in House Slytherin. There were few older Slytherins that respected him and none that were younger, having endured his pushiness the year before under Umbrdige's rule. Those that did pay homage to Draco knew of his father's position in the Inner Circle... that was dust in the wind, now, hence the boy's emotional distress.

It was little compared to the state Severus had seen him after the boy's last fight with Potter. The worst of him came out whenever the Boy Who Lived was concerned—Potter, who had denied him friendship with one sweep of his eyes, and tormented him further with his handsomeness and personality always plucked a chord with Draco's ego. The two were like oil and water… and Draco always ended up sinking to the bottom, overwhelmed by Potter's fame and popularity.

It was difficult for Severus not to think of a different Potter and the similar situation that had plagued himself. He pitied the boy because he knew what it was like to be in the shadow of the disgustingly handsome, charming Gryffindor. But although he had tried to tell him, Draco failed to realize that while Gryffindor rashness was taken for bravery, the cunning of Slytherin was forever diminished to treachery. They, the slithering serpents, would never win the hearts of the brave, loyal, and witty, but could only resolve to strengthen their ranks within the resourceful and shrewd.

Not that Draco was resourceful; no, he displayed other traits of his house more than he showed cunning.

Guile… when it involved avoiding his Head of House's carefully given advice and to worm his way into trouble that was not his.

Fraternity… to those who would prove to be his undoing, to those that would provide him instant protection, but not long term friendship or guidance.

Determination… to cause his godfather to have an ulcer. Not unlike the one that Severus had caused Minerva McGonagall in his youth.

Despite evidence otherwise, Severus did not think Draco was unintelligent. The privileged brat lacked the humility that would have spared his father in many ways from being caught up once again in the Dark Lord's schemes. Money wouldn't solve their problems, now, considering his father had been outed as a Death Eater to the public and wronged his master. There were some that would not be able to turn their eyes any longer and the rest of the world would shun him for his relation… Draco would be a pariah, much in the same way that Severus was.

"What is the meaning of this, Draco?" Severus began to say, "The train leaves in twenty-five minutes and the last carriage in ten."

"Unc—Professor, forgive my tardiness," the pale blonde began to correct himself, straightening his robes absently. His nose was lifted in the air once more and he had gathered his bearings. The red of his eyes was masked with a characteristic sneer and a polite gesture of his hand, "It's late, but I require some advice on a personal matter."

"Fine, but be forewarned that I will not hesitate from deducting points at the first of next term if you miss the train," Severus frowned at the boy. He had not called him by his given name in years and had not come around for a "session" as he called it since Umbridge had arrived in September, her influence replacing Severus' in the eyes of his godson. Usually the meetings consisted of ranting about Potter. Actually, it was always Potter, if Severus could recall.

That, or crying about Buckbeak. That had been humiliating for the boy, and Severus never spoke about it again. After all, the young man had once had a tact with animals, and it was reduced to dust when he had insulted the hippogriff, thinking his experience with the peacocks of Malfoy Manor would grant him instant friendship with the noble beasts. His suggestion to drop from Care of Magical Creatures was met with resentment and tears—and despite consistent reminders that he would not need it for the future, Draco remained enrolled.

"There will be no need for that. I will make the train in time," The boy sneered, "But if you are unable—"

"I am quite able, or you would already know it," the Head of House interrupted, "It's obviously necessary, so I suggest you proceed—and with haste. I don't have all day."

Draco's eyes flashed, but he obeyed.

Severus had avoided feeling slighted by the boy's coldness towards him as he had long before accepted that Draco would not value him or his advice. The closeness they had shared when Draco was a smaller child had drifted as the boy had been presented to the world. When he came to Hogwarts, he had expected Severus to coddle him like his parents had. The Slytherin Head had no such notions; he would protect the boy from bullying, and would favor him to an extent, but not because he was his godson, but because he was the son of a Death Eater. Even still, he didn't sugarcoat anything for anyone (save the Dark Lord, out of a will to survive to see the war to its end). His favor was underlined by strict rules and punishments and characteristically high expectations.

Any of the punishments laid out by Severus were not met well, if at all, by the boy. The words of advice given by Severus for him to tone down his attitude, to avoid any conflict, to keep his head down, were ignored. Draco resented him for it, and the resentment turned to a grudge soon enough.

The Head of Slytherin had tried to steer him in different paths; keep his prejudices to himself, pursue a talent, declare himself as salvageable from his doomed family. Draco had chosen Quidditch, if only to best Potter, when he was better served at pursuing Charms or even Potions… or Care of Magical Creatures, if he were bold enough.

He wasn't the best student in his year (no, that was undeniably Granger), but he was patient, hardworking, and studious when he wasn't being distracted by Potter's inescapable presence. It seemed the Gryffindor Princess, too, got the better of the young Slytherin. He actively pursued to make her miserable, although the girl only managed to make him feel the same more often than not. He would have been better served to prove his prowess by besting her academic scores rather than rubbing her face in her blood status and belittling her friendship with Potter and Weasley.

Draco had long ago assumed he would be protected by his father and his Galleons, assumed that he was shielded by them and thus would not need to prove himself further. It had not crossed his mind that his father was not invincible and that no wizard would stand by him if the corruption was revealed…. that in the end, most people didn't like those that called others Mudblood and that the Golden Trio was, despite the slander of the Prophet, much beloved by most of the general population.

"Professor," Draco began as Severus had been ponderous rather than demanding. His eyes were trained on Severus' cheek, and then to the wall, which he seemed personally affronted by, considering the grimace he was wearing, "You have no doubt seen and read the Prophet—" he tossed the tattered, ripped document out so that the glaring face of his father was peering out at Severus. He already looked haggard, bound and glaring at the frame, maddened with cold rage.

"Yes," Severus replied dryly, "I had thought your mother would have informed you, Draco, or I would have done so myself."

" _She_ did," Draco said sullenly, "But. I had thought—that perhaps father's influence would protect him… perhaps the Prophet would not need to..."

 _Cover-up the worst of it, exaggerate the best? Merlin, boy, what did you expect would happen when your father was caught with his pants around his ankles? That Fudge would protect him over himself?_

"I should have sent for you," Severus admitted with a remorseful nod, "I admit I had… other tasks that distracted me from my duty to you as your Head of House and your godfather."

"No doubt that is _Potter's_ fault, as well," Draco spat loudly as he swept past his head of house, into the safety of the office, "Potter and the Order."

 _Damn Lucius and his loose tongue. There was no need to involve or inform Draco about any of his Death Eater nonsense, but the bastard was determined to fill his boy with illusions of grandeur… as if he hadn't endured the same brand of punishment as I did and do._

What kind of man wanted such a life for his son? He had once admired, envied Lucius Malfoy. Now, he was wondering how he had ever been so foolish to believe such a man.

 _It's not as if anyone else looked at you._

Lily did…

He swallowed that thought down and returned his dark gaze to Draco. The pale, silver-haired boy was tracing his fingertips over the surface of the desk, and then he was spinning to face Severus again.

"The Dark Lord—" Draco blurted.

"Speak softly," He hissed at Draco. He promptly warded the office and cast a swift _Muffliato_. Draco shrugged the hand that had gripped his shoulder away, choosing to glare at the ground rather at the man who had berated him.

"So what is _He_ going to do?" Draco asked. His gray eyes were haunted. Severus felt a twinge of déjà vu. Tonks' eyes had born the same sort of grief not two days before. Draco had inherited the gray from his mother… who had shared them with her cousin, the mutt. The fact that eyes of his childhood tormentor were the eyes of his godson was a paradox at best.

Draco's silvery orbs were shrouded in the shadows of the dimly lit room, and downcast. Severus lit a pair of candles that had melted to wisps while he poured over the texts. The stumps flickered weakly, playing with the light over the platinum blonde's pale skin. It was not long ago, he remembered, that his skin had been pink and the boy had been squealing at the top of his lungs.

 _Nearly sixteen years_ , he reminded himself with a frown. Had it truly been so long ago that Draco had been swaddled and placed in his arms? It felt like far less. Only a blink ago, he had been comforted by the fact that Lily was still alive, and he hadn't even known how significant that was.

"I have no idea," Severus answered after a time.

"You were gone for more than a day this past weekend," Draco noted with a smirk, "Surely, he mentioned my father when you… visited."

 _Yes, his displeasure with your father for being caught and letting the Prophecy get smashed without a one to hear its tale… Thank Circe's tits for their ineptitude._

"He did not directly mention Lucius, or his plans for him. I assume that He will do whatever _He_ feels is best," Severus replied, "You should prepare yourself, Draco. If He wishes your father to rot in Akzaban—"

Draco's eyes grew wild with fury, "My father—"

Severus lifted a hand to silence his much overused excuse; and to prevent himself from jinxing the boy straight.

He was running out of patience for Draco's reliance on his father. Lucius had not heeded Severus' warnings when it had been safe to give them. Although the man had not directly prepared for the dark lord's return, he had not washed his hands of being involved in the shadows of their world. Black market trade and Muggle baiting—pettiness unbefitting of a man with cunning and a powerful name.

He had once upon a time had interest in other things… before his father demanded him to follow the new order, before the Dark Lord would prove to him, then and now once again, what it truly meant to be a part of his order, to be want for power and glory. Lucius enjoyed it more than he did; he was swayed by the promises of glory, even in his age.

Severus' wits were at their ends dealing with the Malfoys, who had dragged him into trouble and not relented since he was eleven years old, "Your father kisses the foot of the most powerful wizard in this country, perhaps the continent. He has been _Marked_ —an honor that is not bestowed lightly, and has willingly subjected himself to serving the commands of his master, whatever those commands may be," He shrunk out of his robes as he spoke, then shoved the tight sleeve of his frock coat upward so that the tip of the forked tongue was visible, "The Dark Lord will release your father if and when he chooses to do so, after carefully considering the consequences of his failure."

The boy was seething when Severus finished, "That's what it means to be at his will, to be accepted in his order, to be a Death Eater. You are at His beck and call and when you displease Him… you will not be able to plea for your father to take your lashing."

 _Although I took his place this time—and have in the past and will no doubt in the future._

Draco hesitated; he wanted to tell Snape off for his "insolence"—that much was certain from the way his jaw quivered and his eyes glared holes into his revealed arm. But he was sensible enough, thank Merlin, not to speak ill to the darker man, who was teetering on an edge he did not want to cross. He felt the pain in his back—a pain that reminded him that if Draco followed in the same steps as he did, he would suffer more than not.

Severus had _thought_ he was an unsentimental man. It was proving more and more difficult these days to ignore his emotional misgivings, as his mother would have called them. Draco was not cut from the same cloth of the Death Eaters who the Dark Lord would protect: the man he thought Severus to be, and Bellatrix, and Rookwood, Macnair, the wizards who would follow orders if only because they were hateful. The men without hearts.

Draco was not heartless, and could not be no matter how hard he would try. His father was not completely without heart, but it was reserved only for his wife and mostly his progeny. Regardless , he had followed Lord Voldemort for the glory and the power, and also duty to his father. Reasons, all, that were an affront to the dark lord's true intentions. There was no room in the Inner Circle for boys called to his feet by their fathers rather than drawn to it themselves. There was no room for anyone else to lust for glory when Lord Voldemort believed himself to be worthy of it all.

Thankfully, the boy thought about his words before he said them, taking a moment to ponder them before he even opened his mouth. They came out in a determined hiss, "Potter will pay for this."

"Naturally, that Dark Lord has decided the same," Severus drawled, although he was tired of Draco's single-mindedness when it came to Potter and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If it weren't for his family, the boy would have more than likely been sorted to Hufflepuff. The tact was lacking in Draco, having been snubbed by his coddling mother and arrogant father. Severus had provided what he could to sway the boy towards a semblance of cunning, but sometimes he wondered if it would be smarter to let the child make his mistakes… as Severus had.

But that was not an option. He would rather die than see the Mark on Draco's arm, above the hand that had once been so small his fingers had wrapped about his much larger thumb.

"I will take my father's place in the Inner Circle," Draco began to say as Severus poured him a drink, hoping to calm him. It was a weak elf-made wine, spiked with Calming Draught; harmless enough to feed to students when they were threatening to overflow from nerves or, in Draco's case it seemed, from stupidity. The liquid sloshed when Severus' arm jerked.

Snape's black eyes met Draco's as the boy mulled over the liquid pensively; within, he felt icy despair, "This is not a hasty—"

"It is not a decision made in haste," Draco snapped as he stood to his full height, setting the full glass on top of a stack of parchments—meeting the gaze of the Potions Master, who had seethed at having been interrupted so callously. He was nowhere near as tall as Severus, but the taller man was hunched over his desk, gripping the edges of it to brace himself, and therefore their eyes were level, "It was a decision made _for_ me."

"By whom?" Severus sneered at the boy, quirking a brow in an expression he hoped would be perceived as nonchalant.

 _Merlin, no. Hopefully, not by the Dark Lord... He knows not of what he is considering—of what he's being forced into. He thinks it's a choice! An honor. He's just a stupid boy! He doesn't have anything to offer, save a pile of Galleons and a name..._

Severus knew then that Dark Lord wanted revenge on Lucius, and it would come in a payment that weighed much heavier than gold.

"The Dark Lord," Draco replied with a smug look on his face, his nerves falling way to a jittering smile, "As you so eloquently put it, has weighed the consequences of my father's failures."

The blood left Severus' face as he contemplated the severity of the boy's hastily given words. Draco was sixteen years old. He couldn't take the Mark, and thus was practically worthless in the eyes of the Dark Lord. But the boy was too naïve to understand that it didn't matter whether he could serve him better (which he couldn't—Draco lacked many of the skills that the Dark Lord cherished). It was plain to the more experienced wizard that he was only the convenient offspring of a wizard who had very publicly failed him, and not a valuable candidate for the Death Eaters.

This was much worse than any torture that Bellatrix or the Dark Lord had ever served him. It was worse than the Cursed water that had been poured down his back during his unofficial initiation into the Dark Lord's order to cleanse his tainted half-Muggle blood. It was even worse than feeling lit cigarettes being pressed and held into his arm by his filthy father at an age when others were still crawling into their parents' bed after nightmares.

Perhaps worse than being rejected by his mother when all he wanted to do was run from the world to stand by her side.

Draco didn't look apprehensive. He seemed vaguely worried, nervous in a way, but was smug when he met Severus' eyes, as if he didn't understand that he should be afraid and miserable. His brows were lifted in a way that suggested he were looking at a brother, rather than his professor or godfather. They would be equals, soon, after all.

When he was Marked in place of his father, Severus would no longer be a figure of authority, but a comrade in arms.

"I'll serve Him better than my father or grandfather ever could," Draco decided, "I have been bred for it."

"That remains to be seen," Severus drawled, the mask he had pulled over his facial expression feeling sticky and uncomfortable. He would not have time to try and sway Draco away, now. Any action made to do so would be seen by the Dark Lord when he invaded the boy's thoughts, and could reveal his support of the efforts of the Order, "Time's up, Mr. Malfoy—we will speak of this further—"

"It's of little matter… I don't doubt that you have a busy Summer ahead of you, Uncle… as do I, naturally," Draco replied cheekily, nodding his head towards Severus' left forearm before he found himself at the door. His gray eyes had gone steely as he opened it, "I'll tell Aunt Bella you're feeling better when I return to the Manor. She did ask after your health in her letter."

The potions professor couldn't contain his rage when the door slammed shut behind him.

He threw the nearest thing—Draco's full glass—at the heavy wood, where the boy's head had been only moments before. It shattered, but did not allow him relief. With a bellow, he shoved all of the contents of his desk onto the floor; the essays he had collected caught flame from the candles as they were both scattered through the air. The graded potions were sent toppling, tinkling as they rolled over the cobble.

The magic in him reacted: the flames grew scorching hot for a few moments before they died down, leaving the parchments covered in soft, flicking light.

After the magic was controlled once more, he sat heavily down at his desk, expression eerily blank. All thoughts and emotions escaped him as he watched the parchments blacken and wither at his feet and reduce completely to dust. He bitterly contemplated what could possibly be left of him after this war was done and through.

The past had resolved to repeat itself, not once, but twice, and determined to engulf him in the destruction. If he could not stop it's will, then there was nothing left to fight for—Draco was doomed, Potter was doomed…

Granger was doomed.

A moment later, the fire burned emerald and a voice called his name. Disturbed, he jerked out of the chair, his wand snapping towards the sound. Having disappeared into dark, empty thoughts and being unexpected of disturbances of any kind so quickly after the end of term, a spell was already in his throat.

The headmaster's floating head nodded to him, stealing it from his throat, "Severus, my boy. May I have a word?"

He gritted his teeth, lowered his wand, and stood up stiffly, "What is it, _old man_? Don't bother coming all the way through… I do not have the patience for another insufferably long chat with a Gryffindor at the moment."

The twinkling blue eyes only grew brighter, "I will be brief as possible, then, Professor Snape. The last of the carriages has departed and the train is starting her engine as we speak. All the children are gone from the castle—except Miss Granger, of course."

Severus sneered at the lined, grandfatherly face, "And that is supposed to improve my emotional disposition? She's the worst of them all, if you ask me—"

"Now, Severus…"

His face slackened from anger to despair, "Why wont you listen to me, you fool? It's not going to work, Albus! I've tried telling you—this is not a good idea—"

"That is debatable. The girl needs your help… would you refuse her over pride? Where has that gotten you in the past, my boy?"

Severus was ready to stomp out the fire—and on the old man's forehead—but restrained himself by planting his boots firmly into the stone, "Have I abandoned all sense of choice, as I will my life for the sake of that stupid boy? I'll be drawn and quartered for what you are suggesting I do if it is sniffed out by Bellatrix or the Dark Lord himself."

The headmaster frowned at that—at his selfishness, "You have not lain down your life, yet, Severus—and there is always a choice to be made between what is good and what is not. You know that well enough than most. I trust that you will be able to keep this hidden from the dark lord, as you have many other things of import, and that you will labor for this as if it were Mr. Potter himself who had suffered the same."

"If it were Mr. Potter, we wouldn't be in this situation," he sneered, "The boy would be dead and the cause would be quite helpless."

"And your posthumous promise to Lily would be broken," the old man reminded him, "Lucky for us and the rest of the wizarding world, you have not yet failed to uphold it."

The potions master was pointedly silent. They both knew what he had agreed to when he signed on to protect the boy. At all costs, he would make certain that Lily's sacrifice was not in vain, and that meant listening to the headmaster. As he had promised in his youth, he would see to it that the man who murdered her was dead… that required Potter, of course, befitting as it was, and Albus' scheming.

Because he was a man of his word if he was nothing else, he would do whatever it took to spare the boy his life once he succeeded in the harrowing task of defeating the dark lord, because he had loved his mother and she had loved her son. It was more than about protecting the world and avenging her… it was about Lily, always.

He would save Potter because of her, for her… so long as the devoted spy didn't bite the dust trying to save his stupid arse from getting killed beforehand.

But that didn't oblige him to protecting his silly friends, as well, despite having done so for the past five bloody years.

 _Liar…_ his conscience accused him. _You heed the promises made to dead women, but ignore any other sense of honor? Do you even know who you are beneath all of your layers, you fool?_

 _Shut up_ , he pleaded.

"I have seen to it that Minerva will spend the summer at her private home."

Severus scowled, "What does that have to do with me?"

"I had hoped you would begin Miss Granger's… instruction as soon as possible," The headmaster shrugged, "To do so, she needed to be healed, and also for the castle to be mostly abandoned. The less people that know about Miss Granger's condition, the better. Minerva especially cannot know the truth—she would not be happy with what we agreed."

"What _we_ agreed?" Severus added with a sneer, "What _you_ decided, and _I_ was forced to accept."

"As Miss Granger decided, herself, and I supported," the headmaster added with a darker glare than usual.

 _Yes, after you guilt-tripped her,_ the potions master wanted to add. Instead, he asked a heavier question, "And what do her parents feel about her being retained from her holiday on the grounds of an impending death?"

The headmaster grew solemn at that, "It's quite interesting, actually, Severus. I was going to tell them the truth—after all, they have little contact with our world and to my knowledge Muggles cannot be Legilimenized…"

"They cannot," Severus added with a frown.

The headmaster nodded and continued, "It would serve little purpose to lie to them to protect them from revealing your secret. But after I observed Miss Granger herself, I noticed something strange. She is already well past seventeen..."

Severus shrugged, "That's not uncommon…" then his brain kicked in. _She's just finished fifth year, you dolt,_ "How in the name of Merlin…"

"I admit, there was a Time Turner involved…"

"Of _course_ there was a bloody Time Turner involved," Severus began to say. He nearly slapped the desk with irritation, "because issuing Time Turners to children and subjecting them to the presence of a full-grown werewolf decisions with obvious answers."

It had to have been third year. Even he wasn't determined enough to enroll in every single elective Hogwarts offered, or succeed in each of them (except, perhaps Divination). Not only that, but the eager Muggleborn had looked especially drained that year… there was that outburst with Draco, of course, the first of many.

He nearly snorted at the memory of it—although he had been initially furious, thinking about the boy's cheekiness earlier made him want to repeat her actions.

The headmaster ignored his dry humor, "It appears Miss Granger added roughly seven to eight months to her timeline while it was in use during her third year."

"Seven to eight—" The man gargled on his own surprise.

There wasn't even ten months in the school year, which meant that she had endured _eighteen_ months in place of them—a year and a half. He would have done more than punch Draco with his magic being strained in so many directions. Potter himself wouldn't have survived to Halloween.

 _That insufferable little fool. She could have died with that many copies of herself running around._

 _And yet, she lives, bushier and bolder than ever. Imagine what she could do with a Time Turner today—_

He shook his head. The strain of her magic, what little was left, wouldn't be able to withstand the physics of a single turn.

"She will turn eighteen in February," the headmaster reiterated.

"And thus, you have no legal obligation to tell her parents anything but lies, if anything at all," the potions master said with a frown. He had hoped the Grangers would object to the treatment Miss Granger had chosen for herself, forcing the headmaster's plans to upend themselves. Although it was not risky in any sense (except that she would be in close quarters with a Death Eater—not that that was much different than being in his potions classroom… except for the fact that that was an obligated act and not a chosen one), he had thought they would at least object to being so distant from her during this time, beg for her to come home so they could spend what time they could with her.

Then again, he didn't know her parents and his experience with his own had not left him with high expectations, to say the least.

"If she chooses to tell them, I will not condone her," the headmaster replied, "But I think it is a wise decision to take this journey on her own. It will be an enlightening one—"

"Albus, she might never get her magical potential back. That's not enlightening, it's _painful_ ," the younger, darker man said, "There is a possibility that her body will begin to fail without it—that pushing her will snuff it out or kill her."

"I am aware of the consequences," the man said, the eyes only slightly less bright, "But I have every faith that with you to help her combat them all, Miss Granger will be good as new and out of your hair by the end of next May."

Severus' eyes bulged out of his head, "The end of—"

"I need Miss Granger prepared to assist Mr. Potter in his tasks, Severus. She is a key piece in all of this—"

"That's what she is, then? Not a student, or a child... but a pawn in your little war," the younger man scowled at the head. How did the man even bend down to the fireplace like that anymore? Then he remembered—the man had done quite a bit of bending in his day. He grayed and glared away.

"A war that you have contributed to," the headmaster said, his expression giving way to fury. It was not often that Severus pushed him so far.

The potions master was too irritated to care, "Yes, on both sides, as so many of your little fan club seem to forget."

"You knew what it would mean for you," the whitehaired wizard said, "I laid it all out before you, Severus. You knew you would be the pariah."

 _Yes, when my eyes were still red from weeping over the body of the only woman I had ever loved._

 _If you had the choice today—_

 _Always._

With that, he swallowed the rest of his words, and relented, "As you wish, headmaster."

The old man's eyes narrowed, and then he settled into his preferred expression of twinkling eyes and twitching lips.

"I trust you will begin with what needs to be done and do it properly, as well," the headmaster instructed stiffly, "There will be no emotional outbursts to excuse you this turn around—Miss Granger's life on the line, as you said. I understand you detest the girl, but we need her… Harry needs her. There will be no victory without her contributions."

"I understand, headmaster," the spy said softly, hardly more than a whisper. The old wizard nodded curtly, and disappeared into green flame. When it returned to the low, yellow embers, he approached them, to snuff them out with the rest of the elfish wine in the bottle. The fire died with a low-pitched hiss and an intense release of smoke.

"I understand quite clearly," he told the ash where the man did not remain, into the bitter, burnt smoke that rose to obscure his face and burn his eyes, "It's not about her, is it?"

But for Severus, more than ever, it was about her. After all, when he pressed his face into the stone of the fireplace, against the dampness of the dungeons he so loved, he imagined the coolness of the cloth that she had pressed to his forehead, of the peace it had offered him amongst the sea of retribution the world had drowned him in for so many years.

 _Damn them all_ , he thought tiredly, _damn them for taking everything I have. Damn her, the most. Damn her for making me remember what I don't deserve to have._

When he left the fireplace and soot, he was cloaked in darkness once more. He left the office to storm through the castle, whispering portraits darting to keep up with his determined pace, intent for the hospital wing and its star-crossed occupant.


	6. Reflection

A/N: **I just wanted to apologize for this being so long over due. I don't know if everyone is aware, but I am a senior in college, and on top of my overload of classes (math classes!) I have two jobs. I want to keep with this, so don't get discouraged. Please let me know how you like/dislike it.**

* * *

 **Previously**

* * *

… _Despite the pain, there was no remorse or regret. She knew it would only make her stronger, both in resolve and in essence._

 _She was a witch, after all, and unfair as it was, she would need to earn her magic back if she wanted to remain one. If she had to be a witch forged in fire, so be it..._

* * *

 _...When he left the fireplace and soot, he was cloaked in darkness once more. He left the office to storm through the castle, whispering portraits darting to keep up with his determined pace, intent for the hospital wing and its star-crossed occupant..._

* * *

-o-o- Chapter Six -o-o-  
Reflection

* * *

Although it felt strange to do so after being prone for so long—first, lying still as possible during the surprisingly quick healing procedure, and then after, recuperating under the nurse's watchful eye—Hermione sat up. Fortuitously, she was able to stretch languidly, and did so for a long moment, reveling in her increased range of motion. After her bones and muscles had graciously loosened, she threw her legs over the edge and stood, eager to exercise the ability to both stand and then walk without being hindered by pain… or be restrained by an overbearing mediwitch. The nurse, rather than retaining or reprimanding her, merely glanced her way and then returned to whatever task she had taken on while observing Hermione's rest.

Only a half-an-hour had passed since the last inch of the wound was sealed shut, but the spell has been simple enough to perform. As far as they knew, there were no immediate or long-lasting effects or unexpected complications. If Hermione so wished and if she could get manage to slight Madame Pomfrey, she could probably run through the castle corridors without qualm. The only thing that prevented her from doing so was the fact that she was certain even the ghosts would be appalled by her current unkempt appearance.

After scrubbing her face clean of the sweat (and a few tears) that had settled in her pores, the young witch stood in front of the mirror, critically examining the wild state of her hair with a frown. Frizzy, tangled ropes jutted out from all angles, leaving her with a halo of wild, hazel curls—or, if one examined them closely, knots twisted within knots. She sighed irritably, worked the tie that had twisted around a section of hair at the top of her head. When it eventually snapped from her attempts to tug it free, she roped both fists around the width of her hair, and smoothed it over her shoulder.

When it was restricted on one side of her head, she threaded her fingers through it and winced. This was, typically, a task more trouble than it was worth without magic to aid her. Her hand hovered over her pocket, fingertips itching for the handle of her wand, before she frowned and hastily replaced her fist on the sink. With no brush in sight or wand at the ready, she settled for weaving a messy braid over one shoulder rather than de-combing it completely. After vainly smoothing the stubborn curls that escaped around her forehead behind her ear, she trailed her hands down her cheek to linger at her neck.

Hermione was, thankfully, no longer burning from the inside out and even as she leaned forward to scrutinize her exposed collarbone, fingers trailing downward for her collar, the flexion of her torso did not leave her gasping or groaning. The nurse had not only forced a potion down her throat at the conclusion of the procedure (Hermione admitted in hindsight that it was foolish to have refused one initially), but slaved a numbing topical over the scar.

Because she was curious, and because it was the natural thing to do, she tugged her collar over her shoulder, revealing a quarter sized knot of skin glossy with salve. Where the nurse's magic had first pulled her severed skin together, the skin split into two ridges. Each narrowed inward along the seam where she had once been split from shoulder to hip, flanked by the scar tissue that was reddened from the previous irritation and glossy from the soothing ointment Madam Pomfrey had provided.

Slowly, but all at once, the curious witch shed the jumper she had donned to the floor, then gathered the hem of the thin hospital gown with both fists. After only a moment of hesitation, she gathered all of her courage and nodded determinedly at her mirror self. The white and gray slip of cotton that was her hospital gown was peeled away with a lifting and uncrossing of her arms—leaving her clad only in her knickers and socks.

Between her breasts, along her clavicle, the seam was thin and shallow, hardly red at all, with the tiniest of indents flanking either side where the stitches had pulled her taut. Soon enough, the sloping expanded outward over her ribs, deepening and widening over the softer flesh of her abdomen, before growing deepest where she had dragged the wand over her hip and then ripped it hastily away—too hastily it seemed, as the flesh there was jagged and ugly. She lowered the waistband of her knickers to reveal the worst of the damage… the tail curled outward, over the ball of her hip, almost as far as her buttock, in a half-hearted pinwheel.

She was unable to look for long at it, and surveyed the length of her body instead. As far as curves were concerned, she had very little, unless you counted the slightness of her waist… she had inherited her father's streamlined body and knobby knees, but not his height. Like her mother before her, she had a petite frame. Her torso was square and squat, her hips and shoulders were narrow. Although lacking in length, her legs were not stubby, but slender and toned, sharp at the calf, rounded just so at the thigh.

Although her womanliness was subtle, she was not unfeminine. Her waist narrowed, her hips and bust flared. The softness was subdued by her narrowness, but it _was_ there. For the young Gryffindor, beauty was certainly more than skin deep, and she held physical attractiveness on a low tier of things that made others attractive. That being said, she was a human being, and she scrutinized her insecurities: too skinny, too plain, too wild.

She was also allowed a vanity. For Hermione, it was her skin; more than anything else, she loved her skin. It usually took very easily to the sun and reflected as such in golden, olive hues. At this point in time she was untanned. The summer cooped up at Grimmauld had not helped in that aspect, and as she was far too busy studying for OWLs (and keeping Harry out of trouble), there was little time left to bask along the lake. Still, she was very proud of her skin, its undertones of cream and gold, and also the fact that the entirety of was soft and supple looking, clear of blemishes, unwrinkled, and smooth… currently, the complexion was rather milky, not unhandsome despite the pale tone. Except… her skin was no longer completely smooth, nor clear of blemishes. The milky texture was unignorably disrupted by the jagged scar that ran from hip to shoulder.

Madam Pomfrey claimed that the redness and bruising would lessen in time, but currently the surrounding flesh from shoulder to hip was rather irritated. Purplish bruises bloomed within and along the scar, the innermost darkened into violent thunderclouds and the outermost sickening yellow-green; the unbruised flesh ranged from pink to scarlet, shiniest where the ointment had not been absorbed. The texture was unavoidably permanent, as the mediwitch had warned… and it was not pretty.

Her mouth tightened into a frown as her graze travelled the diagonal plane of her torso where her skin rippled garishly, a plane interrupted. The nurse's magic had fused the two halves of her along the cut, now nothing more than narrowed seam, yet still a mark she could not escape seeing. Trembling fingers traced the outline of the ropey tissue, edging inward to test the depth of the shallow divide that separated the twin ridges as she realized her one vanity was now just another pestering insecurity.

With the barest of touches, Hermione tested the flesh. It responded with distaste, but the pressure did not leave her buckling nor gasping in pain as it would have an hour previous. She merely winced and gripped the edge of the sink with her fists. Clouded, uncertain amber irises lifted and sought clarity in their reflective twins, unblinking even when her heart grew heavy and her thoughts raced beyond her grasp.

The young witch sniffed through her nose and balanced the new reflection carefully in front of her, weighing the pros and cons mentally even as her eyes blinked in disbelief. After a moment of panic, as there were more cons than there were pros, she lifted her chin defiantly towards her echo, challenging the girl within to feel remorse for what she had done, to question whether the disfigurement was worth the outcome… after all, the action had only spared her the barest tendrils of magic—not even enough to warrant her the use of her own wand.

She normally would have answered wholeheartedly yes, it was worth it. But in the end, if she did not come out the other side of the approaching war, or after exhausting all options and therapies, with her magic… would she be able to justify the sacrifice she had made?

 _It could have spared your life_ , _if nothing else,_ a voice reminded her.

But what was a life without magic, once she had tasted it, heard it?

When she eventually looked away from the mirror, she took a deep, calming breath. With another, she was yanking the dressing gown back over her head and shoving her arms into the jumper, zipping it all the way to her collarbone. It would not do to dwell on her insecurities—new and old— for the entire day. She spared herself one long stare in the mirror, correcting her collars and hems and scrubbing the loose curls away from her face as she did.

The scar was merely another flaw on a long list that had not been lessened even as she grew more accepting of them. But, as much as she should have been resentful of the scar and the fact that it made her uglier (for, as far as she knew, she was rather ugly), Hermione could not bring her conscience to feel remorseful of the decision to accept it as she had her untamable hair, her buck teeth, and her scrawny frame. After all, if the act had spared her magic, she would accept the scar a hundred thousand times over.

 _The key word being if_ , Hermione mused with a rounding of her shoulders as she crossed to the loo door. It would be rather contrite to have gone through the trouble she had endured and come out the other end, empty-handed… a Squib, and a scarred one at that.

All in all, her current state was far more favorable than being open and bleeding, than being pulled taut by stitches—an effective treatment, but one that left her vulnerable to both infection and further injury. She was grateful for Madam Pomfrey's recent efforts, as the treatment allowed her free reign of the castle, should she wish to explore it… and to endure whatever trials Professor Snape and her predicament would present to her without the burden of being split or bleeding.

The young witch drifted into the wing without much purpose. Madam Pomfrey was nowhere to be found, as she had more than likely taken advantage of Hermione's absence to slip into her quarters or office. The young patient was glad for the privacy… she had not enjoyed the luxury of being alone for quite a few days and it was refreshing to be able to not only feel alone, but also enjoy the entire expanse of the open wing. She surveyed the empty space only briefly, and strode forward toward the window.

She found herself looking both longingly and apprehensively out towards the trailing line of dark trees that hovered along the shimmering black water of the lake—both identical and very different from the shadows that had plagued her dreams—pondering the scenery and the future with anxiety. If she wanted, she could take a stroll along the grounds, to clear her head. Her father always said that thoughts cleared in the open air, when her toes were in the grass. She had never been an outdoorsy sort of girl—she rather despised it, actually—but there was something calming about bare toes submerged in freshly-cut grass.

Madam Pomfrey would likely demand to accompany her if she chose to do as such. There was no one else in the castle who could—even Professor McGonagall was banished from Hogwarts, and the rest, from what Hermione suspected, had returned to their families in the wake of the coming war… as she more than likely should have, as well.

She briefly wondered what her parents were doing without her… it was likely that they were waiting at the platform for her, if they had not already been intercepted by Mr. Weasley and returned home. Would they be upset? Worried? Had they grown used to hearing that she was in the hospital wing… that she was in danger? Would she have a chance to explain it truthfully?

There wasn't a way possible that could make the past year easy for her parents to swallow…

An abusive, vile ministry official tried to take over the school on the pretense that the headmaster was raising an army. Their daughter had gotten detention and had to write with a Blood-Letting Quill. No, it wouldn't heal properly. The words would be there, etched into the back of her palm, forever.

And that gash in her chest? She did that to herself. The scar would never lessen, too. Because of a curse cast by a Death Eater, a terrorist, she wouldn't need to bother with struggling to explain any of her lessons to either parent—all the spells she learned wouldn't be of use to her anytime soon.

She probably couldn't ever cast them again, considering she got cursed and her magic self-destructed on her in an attempt to keep her alive.

You know, nothing too exciting, Mum.

Hermione, more than anything else in the world, didn't want them to worry about her—she was their daughter, after all, and they had raised her to be self-sufficient and damnably so. She hadn't yet told them the complete truth about anything about her world… she wasn't about to do so now, even if a large part of her recognized that she needed them now more than ever. No matter how dire, they would never understand her love of magic (her addiction to it, actually), and thus there was no point in wasting the time convincing them that magic, for her, was worth every sacrifice… including her life, although she prayed it would not come to that.

Regardless of the fact that they would not have the truth, she did want to hear from them. Dr. and Dr. Granger had never gotten the hang of owling, but they would attempt to reply. She made certain to frequent the owlery, if only to send them a quick note, just in case they needed to contact her. Many times, the owls did not care for the stationary her parents used and would shred it or perhaps drop it several times, as every reply she had ever received was never quite pristine as those she had been sent by Ron or Harry.

She would have to send them one soon… after the train had landed, so she would be certain they would receive it after Mr. Weasley had explained whatever situation Professor Dumbledore had concocted. She would need to corroborate his tale, if she wanted them to remain unsuspicious. She mentally reminded herself to consult the headmaster—it was best to reach him by note, through the Floo, rather than bother him in person.

With that in mind, the window was abandoned in search of parchment. Her narrow form trailed before her bedside table, ruffling through the books to find a clean piece and, although blasphemous to many wizards, a ballpoint pen. She preferred the nifty inventions over quills, although she wouldn't use them publicly for obvious reasons. Briefly, she had considered using a pencil during her OWL examination—simply for the fact that it was far quicker and easier for her to write with a pen or pencil than tip of a blasted feather. But, just like with muggle exams and number two pencils, the OWLs permitted only uncharmed quills and standard black ink, in equally un-spelled wells provided by the examiners.

"Miss Granger."

She jerked so violently she squeaked, and inadvertently sent the stack of books she had been rifling through scattering.

"For Merlin's sake!" She reflexively reached for her wand in the back pocket of her jeans—despite recognizing the voice as that of the potions master.

The books she had knocked to the ground were levitating upward by the time she was able to face the intruder, her heart rate steadying almost instantly when the smell of him reached her nose.

Professor Snape smirked at her from where he lounged against the wall on the other side of Ron's bed. He had seemingly been thumbing through one of the books she had asked Ginny to fish out of her trunk for her (the ones that had overflowed into the two stacks on Ron's bedside table), as it was now tucked against his side while he levitated the scattered books to rights.

"Professor Snape," She greeted as nonchalantly as was possible, although that was difficult to achieve when her voice came out in a squeak.

"I see you've made yourself… comfortable," he began to drawl the word out in that way that he did, emphasizing it over his silvery tongue much longer than was necessary. Despite the languid speech, he abruptly snapped the last book down on the stack, causing her to flinch.

She flushed when his dark eyes raked over her face, and immediately wished she had made a proper attempt to comb her hair.

 _What does it matter what I look like?_ She bristled.

 _He'll think… well, he'll think I'm a lay about—or a slob at the least._

 _When has it ever mattered before? He's seen the mess you make of yourself every year during finals—_

When his mouth curled into a smirk, obviously aware of her internal struggle, she curled beneath her crossed arms, searching for the words to defend herself, "I was just about to… erm, take a stroll, actually, sir…"

He quirked a brow at her.

She flushed and smoothed the hem of her jumper further down over her hospital gown, "After I retrieved a proper change of clothes from my dorm."

"The nurse's leash is growing ever shorter these days," he noted with a narrowing of his eyes, "Or has there been a development in your physical recovery?"

Hermione realized that the nurse had not consulted him in the matter, nor informed him that the procedure had occurred, "Madam Pomfrey has sealed the wound with magic."

His dark eyes showed no alarm, nor did his face. He stared at her for a long moment, before he frowned, "And?"

She blinked, then curled inward—what had she been expecting? Perhaps a little encouragement, perhaps a congratulations, or well wishes. Then again, this was Professor Snape. He hardly congratulated her for achievements made on merit… it was highly unlikely that he would show any sign of being pleased that she had, once again, avoided death.

"Naturally," he began to say, "Enough time has passed, of course, to assume that your magic—what is left—has stabilized."

He stalked towards the stack of books, replacing the one he had plucked neatly on the top of the leaning stack, "Regardless, it would be wise that you did not, indeed, go for a stroll without informing either myself or Madam Pomfrey. As far as assumptions go where it concerns your health… well, it is not wise to assume anything at all, Miss Granger, is it?"

She bit her lip and nodded.

He did not stride closer, merely stood stiffly across from her, Ron's bed encompassing the distance between them.

"The headmaster himself is especially eager to see your magic returned to full capacity—as am I, if only so that I can put this nauseating task behind me. Considering your current state, sans injuries of the physical nature, we will begin your… magical therapy in the immediate future."

She met his gaze for a moment, and cursed herself and stared pointedly away, "Immediate? As in… today?"

 _Don't look him in the eye, you twit! He'll read your thoughts…_

 _Shite._

She swept across his enigmatic gaze, focusing instead on his cheekbone. Every plane of his face remained as sharp as it had been in the past, smooth, but sallow-colored, and unfortunately angular. There was no sign that the cheek had been split open—nor was there an abrasion along the bridge of his large, overbearing nose. The black hair hung lank on either side of his face, the tips of it tickling his dark-robed shoulder.

"Is there another definition of immediacy that I am unaware of?" The potions master sneered dryly, his lips curling downward at her. The chin she had admired before jutted outward—he was gritting his teeth again.

"No, sir," Hermione responded obediently, her cheeks pinking further as the dark eyes burned toward her.

A midnight brow quirked ever higher and his pointed face grew further disgust, his dark eyes attempting to sear holes into her flesh as his cheeks tightened, "It may well be a holiday, Miss Granger, but I should not have to remind you that it will not be spent strolling over the grounds and burrowing in the library to your heart's content."

A drier part of her wanted to argue—he had, in fact, instructed that they would be conducting research, together, into her injury—but wisely refrained. It was, after all, Professor Snape. Any snide remark she could scrounge up, his would be far sharper.

"What time should I be available, sir?" Hermione asked meekly.

His dark eyes didn't leave her face, although hers had lowered to assess her odd array of attire with a wince, "I will expect you in my office at three sharp, Miss Granger. That should give you enough time to make yourself… presentable."

As eager as she had been an hour before, even ten minutes before, she was now feeling quite unprepared for what was to come…

Would he attack her mind? What if he saw memories she didn't want him to see? Would it be painful?

She chewed her lip as she contemplated all that the lessons could lead to: mainly humiliation. If it were possible to do so, she needed to empty her mind of any of the lewd thoughts she had ever had about anyone, the professor included. Her face drained of color as she realized that she had been staring at him far too closely these past few days—and that his voice was a particular compelling trait.

 _Gods above, keep that to yourself if you want to ever look him in the eye again!_

 _Literally,_ a part of her snorted back.

When she snapped out of her reverie to glance at him, his nostrils were flaring with irritation—had he said something to her? He opened his mouth viciously to continue or repeat himself, but the mediwitch chose that moment to emerge from her quarters.

"Professor Snape," she greeted with a taut nod of her head and a cool, even gaze towards Hermione, "Are you collecting Miss Granger for a lesson?"

The potions master sniffed, "I was under the _assumption_ that I was in charge of Miss Granger's therapy—despite your lack of disclosure or consultation of my professional opinions in matters of her health. As dismal as the task will be, I did not think I would need to ask your _permission_ for her discharge, considering you did not ask mine before—"

"There's no need for snobbery, Severus. I am not questioning your authority in the matter," she interrupted with a callous shrug of her shoulders, "After all, my professional opinion means equally little to you, so it matters not what I would have to say, or that we both know you would have supported the decision regardless. By all means, proceed as you have planned. I trust you will be cautious of Miss Granger's delicate physical condition, just as I trust that you are fully capable of helping her regain what she has lost."

The potions master made a choking sound, similar to a cough. He did not speak again, choosing instead to stare at the mediwitch's back for a long, pregnant moment as she disappeared into the store room. His jaw was hovering between speaking and swallowing, and although his face was impassive, Hermione noted the uncertainty in the slight lifting of his chin. For the first time in her life, Hermione realized that the man was taken by surprise.

The bright witch chose that moment to look away from him, knowing that he would catch her staring once he returned to his usual, shrewd self. Naturally, the dark eyes did not hesitate to snap towards her, searing her with their hypnotizing blackness, attempting to draw her gaze back toward him.

She did not look up. Eventually, he spoke with a tone bordering between a hiss and a curse, "Three o' clock, Miss Granger."

When he was gone, Madam Pomfrey emerged from the store room, shaking her head. Her steely gray-green eyes left the slamming door to meet Hermione's and significantly softened, "My dear, take no offense, but I think a shower is in order. Cleansing charms can only achieve so much."

Hermione winced and nodded, then meekly asked, "Madam, I hate to be a bother… would it be possible to summon my things from Gryffindor Tower so that I might…" she lowered her hands to pluck at the thin fabric of the hospital gown, "wear something more presentable? And well… simply to have at the ready, since I can't summon everything myself. Just a few things."

The nurse understood her apprehension—she didn't want to take up residence in the hospital wing any more than she had wanted to stay behind in the castle for the rest of the summer.

"It is no bother, Miss Granger. Perhaps we will only summon a few necessary things for the next day or so," the nurse smiled, "A fresh set of clothes and your toiletries should do for now."

The young witch's eyes brightened, understanding the implication—she wouldn't be in the wing for very much longer… at least, so long as her luck did not once again run dry. With the summoned objects in hand (including her favored brush and a jar of magical conditioner), she headed for the loo and began to mentally prepare for her lesson with a good, and well overdue, scrubbing of her skin and brushing of her hair.

* * *

At three quarters past two, Severus scowled at the clock.

No doubt Miss Granger at that very moment was halfway to the dungeons from the hospital wing. She had likely spent that last three hours preparing to woo him with her knowledge of the mind arts. He smirked at the notion, knowing that in his experience, the first lesson of Occlumency was always the hardest… Miss Granger could have memorized ten different manuals, but the outcome would be the same, as it had been for him and his master, and his master before him.

Of course, they wouldn't really be performing any Occlumency completely, not yet. While Miss Granger was probably squirming at the idea of him crawling through her pompous little head, she was (theoretically) doing so in vain. He would not perform (proper) Legilimency on her until he was certain she could keep him out. After the last time, he could not trust himself to slip within her totally unguarded mind.

In order to prepare to deflect him, she would need to master the initial stage of the mind arts, which required an understanding of one's own mind. It was sometimes referred to as inflection. Any lessons in Occlumency began with inflection, save when they involved the particularly empty mind of the Boy Who Lived.

He would have normally taught Potter properly, had he not been as pressed by the headmaster to completely close the boy's mind, rather than prep it for true mastery. Albus had forebade him from doing so. Inflection required freeing one's mind from normal conventions of thought, in order to allow true understanding of oneself. For the Chosen One, freedom of thought was far too dangerous, or so the headmaster claimed, out of fear that inflection would leave Potter vulnerable to the strange connection that formed between him and the dark lord. Severus disagreed… but continued with the fruitless lessons as he was bid to, until the boy had stuck his nose where it hadn't belonged, forcing him to cease their meetings. It was either refuse to tutor him further, or _Obliviate_ him of all memories he had sniffed out…

The agreement between he and Albus was that no one would ever know about his loyalties—it was far too dangerous, not to mention unmanning for a creature such as he—and thus Albus was bound to allow him to conclude Potter's lessons, since he would not consent to a memory removal.

Such an option was not available for his situation with Miss Granger… as Albus had said, she needed his help, as unwilling as he was to give it. Any memory charm could be detrimental to her progress—he was not a sadist, despite the assumptions of the general public.

Dumbledore seemed to believe she was worth all risk… which mean that she was a key component to his plan for winning the war. Severus did not doubt she had been the mastermind behind the schemes of her friends, but could not see her being able to not only stand up against the dark lord, but defeat him. Then again, he doubted the same of Potter and yet, it had been prophesized that he was the only wizard capable of doing so. Severus had long since abandoned questioning whatever god had decided on the swine for the task, and he wasn't about to question the one that had convinced Albus that Granger, too, was imperative to achieving it.

His bones, achy from lack of sleep and his recent bout with _Cruciatus,_ a la Bella, creaked and the burning sensation in his back remained persistently irritating, flaring as he stood. Although it hardly made a difference, he shed his teaching robes and draped them over the back of his chair. His frock coat remained… contrary to the rumors of his colleagues, it was not as much a fashion statement (although he did enjoy the look of it), but the charms that were woven into the wool that made him attached to the thing. The heavily buttoned coat (and its fancier twin) had cost him a pretty penny in his youth—the charms he had commissioned made it and any overlaying garment practically weightless, and the clothing beneath smoother than silk. In his youth, the agony had driven him mad—the frock coat, purchased in Norway, allowed him the concentration he needed to earn his mastery… and function, in general, without submitting to constant agony.

The clock chimed—ten minutes till three. Rather than pace his office, he headed across the hall for the potions classroom, to busy himself as he waited for Miss Granger to arrive. He fully expected she would be early… it was the insufferable know-it-all, after all. She was typically early for everything, so long as the dimwit duo weren't delaying her—and they were at that moment hopefully nearing the platform in London, quite unable to distract her from the task at hand.

He couldn't help but sneer as surveyed the potions classroom with a slow sweep of his eyes, The entire room was untidy, at least by his standards. With students like Finnigan and Longbottom (who no doubt failed to earn the adequate OWL for Advanced study, unless the gods wanted him to suffer another two years), the room would never meet the expectations of an apothecary, let alone a certified master.

Each desk and bench had been replaced a year before the Golden Trio arrived, and despite the many repairs he had made over the years since Longbottom's fateful first day and all that followed, they were never the same since he had plopped down five years ago, chubby and twittering. The wood of each had a wide array of markings—whether it had been burned, sliced, or—in not one, but two cases—reduced to smithereens and then spelled back together. All the spare cauldrons he had provided were melted down… and those that he had repaired were stacked precariously in the back of the classroom. The cupboard of books was overflowing… several students had donated texts at the conclusion of the term, and no doubt half of them were hexed.

He would rifle through them later, in search of any "misplaced" spells and note which would earn its owner a detention for carelessness. For now, the majority would collect dust until he could spare the time.

Some of the shelves of empty vials that lined the wall beside the chalkboard were grimy from the last day of instruction, when a second year had sent his sludge of a potion flying for his head (supposedly on accident). It had hit the wall and splattered over the chalk, and sent half of the glass tinkling to the ground. The charms of a couple had been old and the glass shattered over the ground, dissolving in the gunk that little Oliver Gable had brewed. Severus was already in a mood from his lack of sleep the night before… fortunately for Ollie, he had been unable to follow through with the detention he had been viciously promised. Severus made a mental note to reschedule it for the first of the year… he had a reputation to uphold, after all.

He didn't dare head for the store-rooms. What little ingredients he had to begin with, considering the lack of funding that year by the Ministy, had been further depleted thanks to Umbridge's incompetence. Many of the ingredients needed in the last two months of the year had come from his personal stores and he hated to see what either the school's or his store rooms looked like… all but bear, if he was even lucky.

All-in-all, it had been a year from hell… the fault of the combination of Umbridge, Albus, and Voldemort—with a sprinkle of Potter, Lucius, and, of course, Bella, the cherry on top.

He scrubbed a fingertip along the bench where Longbottom sat as he prowled beside it as the list of his pestilences trailed away from him. His fingernail scraped along the edge of the charred wood… it was, ironically, a seat away from Granger's station, which was impeccably clean. Despite the other students who shared it in the periods where she was not present, she was consistently keeping her work space clean and tidy, even if it meant cleaning it from the class previous. Although he had noted that she was not the neatest person, if only evident in the disarray of books she had surrounded herself in a matter of three days, she kept her work area in his classroom as clean as humanly possible.

He had assumed it was because she was a neat person, but that was not proving to be true the more he observed her. Clean, he hoped, but not neat—not like him. She was, however, smart enough to recognize the importance of neatness and sterility while brewing, if she did not recognize its usefulness in all other aspects of life.

It didn't surprise him that she was careful within his classroom. She was, like he said, an adequate brewer, much better than any other in her year, and a part of that came from her need to be precise and perfect. Despite her persnickety attention to detail, she lacked the talent or the creative flare to go anywhere within the field. Being a brewer of potions did not make one a talented potions student—it required creativity, and the need to act on that creativity. Miss Granger was bright, yes, but he doubted that she was creative.

 _Mastering_ potions required not only understanding, innately, the nature of the ingredients, how they melded together, and how potions were best made, but also being able to go beyond the recipes of the past and visualize the elixirs of the future. Although he had always favored defense—as he had once believed it would lead him to glory and riches—his heart had been swayed very early on by the exact art of potions, and the ability to create the best and most useful potions. Miss Granger followed every recipe to exact specifications, and never strayed. Her essays were regurgitations.

Minerva might consider that genius, but his expectations were much higher.

Instinctively, he glanced towards the back of the classroom, where he had once sat himself as a student under the drunkard Slughorn… and where a beautiful girl had once sat beside him. Lily had been talented in Potions—Charms was her true calling, but she had been equally capable of obtaining a potions mastery. Brewing was natural for them both, and it was something that they had bonded over, discussing possibilities and algorithms and theory. They had been partners in nearly every project since first year… until, of course, he mucked that up.

Sixth year had been the year from hell, after all… the year devoted at first to her, then his song, and then his resolve for greatness at the cost of his soul.

Rather than dwell on the loneliness he had felt that foul year, sitting in the back of the room, taunted by her sweet smile, spared not for him but for damn Lupin, he looked away from the harrowing bench to his desk. The board was wiped clean with a sweep of his hand and his desk was cleared of any lingering scraps of parchment, quills, or vials. The minute hand was pressing ever closer to the hour, prompting him to glare at the doorway and wonder if Miss Granger had somehow slipped beyond his wards without his having heard or felt her.

 _Damn her_ , he stewed, prowling towards the doorway, _I could be halfway through_ Wormwood Weekly _by now if it weren't for her, hidden away in my hole of a home._

Considering the year he had had, it would have been refreshing to return to the dingy study of Spinner's End. If it were a normal year, he would be nursing a bottle of wine by now, catching up on all the journals he had been unable to read keeping the brats alive.

Between his "missions" for the order and his summons by the dark lord, hours wasted on Potter's Occlumency lessons, and keeping Umbridge from murdering the same children he had wanted to strangle for years, he had not been able to enjoy the few joys he allowed himself in life: written word and solitude. He read enough essays to constitute the first, but the trash that his students submitted hardly counted as legible work, let alone substantial—Miss Granger's regurgitation of texts included. The last was impossible with all the brats (and most of the faculty) running around to torment him.

Despite his hatred for the house of his youth, he had been looking forward to distance from Albus and the damn castle. It was only by the grace of god that Minerva was banished… at least his colleagues, tolerable and not, would not be there to annoy him further.

A minute to three, the wards warbled, and he prepared himself to face the girl. Never one to allow others the upper hand, he sent the door of the classroom flying open and stepped into the corridor.

Miss Granger did not have the same reaction as she had in the hospital wing. In fact, she looked rather winded and irritated—her hair was in far better shape than it had been earlier. The greasy, matted look made way for her typical frizzy halo of curls, half pulled away from her face. Although she did not voice her greeting, she nodded to him as he rounded on her, his face a sneer as he had been hoping for her typical scrunch and squeak reaction.

"You're late," he snapped darkly.

She opened her mouth to object… then surprised him by nodding, "Sorry, sir."

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, "No excuses? I'm shocked—perhaps you truly are in a state of imbalance, Miss Granger."

She smiled at him—causing half of him to recoil and the other half to halt all function—and said, "That, or I've finally learned how to not cross you."

"That remains to be seen," he scowled, and lifted a hand to urge her into his office.

She filed into the room, arms tight at her sides to avoid brushing against him. In spite of his trying not to, he caught a whiff of lavender and vanilla as she slipped past him.

"Sit," he instructed tersely towards the stiff visitor's chair. Although he did not partake in a similar comfortable position, he loomed behind the desk, glaring at her.

She was arguably in a much better state of health than the day before (and more presentable than hours previous), but the chit was still visibly exhausted; the skin beneath her eyes were bruised and blotchy and her mouth was frowning. The hospital gown was gone, replaced by jeans and a jumper with a hood that practically swallowed her… the logo read University of London in frayed red letters. Sill, hidden beneath the layers of muggle clothing, the young woman who sat in front of him was very visibly no longer a child, but practically a full grown woman. In fact, according to Albus, by wizarding standards, she was a woman.

Her age was more prominent in her face than her body, which was currently being swallowed by the ugly, old jumper. The buck teeth were narrower, shorter, straighter, but still prominent when she smiled or sucked on her bottom lip… he doubted it would be long before she began that insufferable ministration. The wild curls were much the same as they had been in her early childhood, untamed, but no longer tangled and frazzled. The porcelain skin was no longer quite as pudgy, but it was clear despite the kisses of freckles over her nose, only slightly grayed from lack of rest. Her cheeks were no longer rounded, but quite defined and elegant… her thin mouth was softer (albeit currently pulled taut with anxiety) and her jaw more angular, hardened defiantly as she scrutinized him from her front row seat.

It was only when he refrained from speaking again for the following minutes that her brow began to furrow and she shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze.

Her sharp, intelligent eyes glanced at him more often than was appropriate as he stood at his desk, pondering where he would like to begin and reveling at the apprehension that was growing over her quivering cupid's bow of a mouth. As he had suspected, after a few minutes of pregnant silence, she began to nibble at her lip and frown. Her stubborn chin twitched when he paced away from his desk, and yet still, did not speak to her.

 _Patience is important, little lioness,_ he baited her silently, prowling along the length of the board, relieving himself of the growing tension in his lower back. If she lacked the patience Potter had, they would never be able to find her magic, let alone protect her mind from the dark lord's scrutiny, and thus prevent his hide from being skinned.

"What do you know about Occlumency, Miss Granger?" he inquired abruptly; he had rounded on his heel to face her.

The smallest of gasps escaped her, drawing her biting teeth away from the reddened lip they had enslaved—he smirked… he had not lost his touch, completely, after all. The squeaking, jumping girl of eleven was still hiding within the young woman, somewhere, intimidated by his very presence.

Once the initial shock melted away, the young Gryffindor witch made a familiar expression (her brow furrowed in concentration, her eyes lifted towards the ceiling as if they were the pages of the book she was recalling). Knowing where that expression would lead them, he snapped his fingers, drawing her eyes back to him.

His tone was sharp, insistent, "Don't waste your breath defining the art, Miss Granger. As an accomplished master of both, I do not require a textbook definition of either Occlumency or Legilimency. Extensive knowledge or experience, no more, and no less."

"I know what any curious witch would, I suppose, without having a proper teacher," she mused. Her eyes lowered from where they had drifted to look up at the low dungeon ceiling, dancing mysteriously over towards the row of ingredients behind his shoulder, smiling in a way that made him wonder what exactly she was thinking about.

She shifted nervously and returned to glare at his chest, "I do not have any experience that I know of, but from what I have read… I know that Occlumency requires great concentration. I know that it allows inward reflection into one's mind—into the soul."

The darkened honey lifted… they teased along his chin, up his cheek, over his brow, but never met his own.

He was admonished to realize that he could still taste her mind on his tongue… every thought in her bushy head was swirling within the melted amber, just beyond his reach. It would take hardly any effort to reap any wonder she offered within the confines of her musings—he had proven that to himself the night before, when he was half a man and she was hovering beside him. He could have her mind sprawled out before him in seconds—if he so wished.

It was strangely difficult to convince himself to refrain, despite being so resolved earlier that day.

"Occlumency is mastered most often to protect the mind from those that would seek access using Legilimency," She lifted her gaze a little, along the bridge of his nose, causing him to lean forward sharply— _had she inferred that he was contemplating reading her mind?_ "But it is not learned solely for the purpose of protection. Occluding can be helpful in relieving tension and stress, to provide insight into one's inner spirit, or, hopefully… to understand one's magic."

She thought about it for a moment. Although she probably didn't register it, she picked at the hem of her jumper, and chewed at her lip absently once more, "The mind, body, heart, and… magic are all connected. It is logical that inflection into the mind would lead to inflection into a witch's magic, or her soul, in theory—"

"Should such a thing exist," he reminded her, "The existence of a soul is as much a debate in the magical world as it is in the muggle, Miss Granger."

Hermione nodded, curling into herself, "Do you believe it exists, Professor?"

"It doesn't matter what I believe," he interjected, irritated with her curious nature and trusting posture, irritated with his lecherous compulsions, "We are not presently concerned with the existence of souls, Miss Granger, as there are more demanding matters at hand."

"Yes, sir," she replied softly, almost dejectedly.

 _Insufferable chit,_ he glowered. There was not time enough in his day to both prepare her for what was to come and discuss the existence of souls, nor ponder their relation to magic or the mind. She should be grateful he was even standing before her—not pressing him for more than he was able to give her, as usual.

She should be grateful he wasn't ripping her mind apart like he had Potter's. Perhaps he could give her as memorable lesson as he had the Chosen One, show her what it meant—

 _Master your emotions, foolish boy,_ it was his mother's voice that urged him _, or they will lead you to an early grave._

"Any witch or wizard is capable of mastering Occlumency," he iterated with a scowl, turning to keep her damnable irises out of his sight, "But few find themselves willing or able… Why?"

"Well—" She opened her mouth, but he cut her off—after all, her face had drifted towards that nauseatingly determined one she wore when she was certain of the answer. It was the fact of a student eager to be reward, and not a woman in desperate need of his help.

"Occlumency is not a subject for the faint of heart or mind or magic or body—it is an art, not unlike potions, that requires discipline, attention, and practice. I am well aware that you are neither disciplined, nor attentive, and in actuality are impatient, single-minded, and defiant…"

He didn't fail to notice the wince, or the sudden rounding of her shoulders.

"…fortunately for you, Miss Granger, we are not yet pressed to close your mind as we are to opening it."

Although her posture remained slumped, she did perk up slightly at the thought, before she caught herself and tried to hide behind a stiff cough and a too-interested nod.

He continued snidely, "I am, if not a patient teacher, a persistent one. Be forewarned… there will come a time when you will need to protect your thoughts both from me and from others. When you are strong enough to resist without great risk, we will push the boundaries of your mind—and fortify them as needed."

 _There you are_ , he said when her face lifted fully to his, and her amber eyes burned into his own. He refrained from pressing through the golden irises to the mind within, although it took the majority of the moral fiber he had to do so.

"The task at hand is not protection, but insight. Your magic is depleted and thus we need to revive it…" He gestured towards the books on his desk, "It is not yet clear to me whether or not that is possible—what little research I have found argues that it is nearly, if not totally, impossible."

The clear eyes didn't darken or harden, nor did they clear or well with tears. They kept his gaze for a long moment, searching his own, before dropping to stare at his mouth and then over his shoulder. She looked lost for the barest of moments, and then she was nodding resolutely.

"That being said and recognized, it is vastly more important that you are able to recognize your magic, so that you can gauge your own power, how that power fluctuates," he added harshly, "or if it is once again escaping you—you were fortunate once, but it is not advisable that you rely on luck to spare you a second time."

Her face grew morose at that, but she did not object, or respond at all.

"Obviously, you were able to detect your magic in some shape or form, or else you would not be robbing me of my own holiday as well as your own—Describe it to me."

She frowned and murmured, "My magic?"

"No, Miss Granger, your newest set of dress robes," he drawled, "Yes, your magic, insipid girl."

Her cheeks flushed—whether in anger or embarrassment, he was unsure, as her gaze was not lifted to his. The rosy color contrasted with her ivory skin, causing him to trace the curve of her cheek more critically than he had before. The chestnut curls kissed the blushing flesh, hazel overlapping peony... she shoved the locks away, behind her ear, drawing his eyes back to her freckled nose.

Her answer was hurried and jittery, "It was hot, burning hot, and slow, heavy… like—flowing magma—the molten material within a volcano—"

"I am aware of the location and definition of magma, Miss Granger. Where was the weight most prevalent?"

She hesitated, then lifted her hand, pressed it against the space above her navel, between her ribs—her diaphragm.

"It came from my core," she said intuitively.

"Perhaps," he noted with a sneer, "Much like the soul, it is a topic of debate whether the core exists or not."

He shoved one book open and presented it to her. Severus had not intend for her to read it aloud, but she did so. She was too intent on the words to catch his displeasing stare.

" _The Magical Core is perhaps one of the most perplexing concept of the magical world. Most of the old families do not recognize the concept as each has their own lore and legend concerning the definitions and origins of magic, but some do agree that there is truth to its theory. Magic is in the essence of a wizard, born and then bred, wielded from birth until death. Some consider that the magical core, as a concept and not necessarily conventionally defined, is a representation of the center, the heart or soul of the magical body—that magic itself is the blood that fuels through it to wait at our command and is returned to our body, replenished by the core in a closed circulatory system dependent upon various parameters such as age and gender. The question remains: how can we strive to understand something that, although inarguably existent, is as abstract as the theory of a soul itself?"_

Her frown was deep and ponderous.

"I _felt_ it," she argued in an affronted murmur, "Isn't that reason enough to accept its existence?"

"Felt," he pressed, "Felt in your body, but is that alone enough to make theory into law? Can you remove it from your body, dissect it, study it in your hands, model it with magic, represent it on parchment?"

She strained for the description, for an answer to his question, trying to form it in her mind before she offered to him.

"I… no, but—maybe," she sighed in frustration, "I don't know."

He frowned, "What did you feel when it escaped you, Miss Granger?"

She glared at him—the action of a consummate Gryffindor, "I don't know what else you want me to say… sir. It was hot and heavy like magma and it was flowing out, towards my chest, which was … absorbing it? Either way, I was burning hot, and then I was cold—numb. When I realized my magic was mostly gone and what was left was following, I did what I had to do to keep it. And then I woke up in the hospital wing and… well, I didn't have a wand, nor do I now. And it's gone, so it's a bit difficult for me to describe my magic."

He sneered at her. Her orange-brown eyes pierced him, but she said nothing, only managed the barest of nods.

"Firstly," he continued with a sneer, "There are not always defined, clear-cut answers, Miss Granger—not every question can be found in a book, and despite your insufferable reliance upon written word, texts do not carry almighty truths. If I ask a question, I am not always expecting a particular answer."

With that, the book in her hands snapped closed and landed with a thud back at the top of the stack. She flinched once more, lending him a smirk. When her gaze met his, it was slightly more defiant.

"I know that," she muttered disobediently. When he sneered, she added hastily, "…sir."

"Do you?" He continued without pause, "Secondly, when you have proven yourself worthy of a wand," he began to drawl dryly, "You will have one."

She appeared slightly admonished, but her stubborn chin jutted outward, betraying her truer nature—a rash, stubborn Gryffindor.

"Lastly, the devil's in the details, as they say—we will return to this again, when you have reflected upon your answers properly." he mused with a calculated quirk of his brow, "Is there anything else you would like to add before we begin?"

"I… " She answered, although he could tell she was uncomfortable her answer, as her lip was caught in her teeth and she was leaning forward protectively, "When I use my wand, I can feel my magic in my hand—warmth. I thought it was the wand reacting, but it's not the wood or even me. It's my magic being amplified by the wand in such a way that I can, well, feel the heat… and when I need it the most, I can almost… almost sense it, around me, in me. Sometimes, I think I can hear it… "

He stiffened in his chair—realization dawning.

She could hear her magic…?

If this were true, then she was already more in tune with it than he had perceived.

"When I cast, I hear whispers—notes of a song, the same song. The same notes…"

Despite his inward hope that she would not, she found the first string of notes and hummed them gently. The baser part of him, his own magic, responded in turn, drawing out a flurry of notes in the recesses of his mind, responding to hers.

The haunting memory of the low thrumming of her throat as she ran nimble fingers through his hair came to mind, stealing the insult that had been ready in his throat. As if she was unaware that he had heard it before, or perhaps because she was uncertain that he had been quite conscious while she had sung it, she began to search clumsily for the following notes.

Naturally, being unversed as she was about magic (she was Muggleborn, despite her talent with magic and the absorption of magical lore), she had no idea how personal it was to reveal the Song to another wizard—let alone, a wizard like him, a Death Eater, and her teacher to boot.

She had presented it to him not once, but twice, without understanding the relevance of such a thing, without him even being aware of what was happening the first time around

"That's quite enough," he interrupted with a hiss.

"But you asked—"

He pierced her with a glare that silenced her, reminding her that he was not her personable head of house, or the meek Charms professor, or the friendly oaf of a half-giant. He was the potions master, a man who was detested and feared… a man to be heeded, not interrupted. She did not apologize, merely sat, hardly containing the energy that now waited within her—her shoulders practically shook with it, and she chewed on her lip much more violently than she ever had before in his presence.

"Miss Granger, the song you are describing is unique to you and you alone and should not be shared with another unless you trust them completely," he instructed, "It is a personal aspect—revealing it is inappropriate, at best."

Her cheeks flushed a brilliant scarlet, "I had no idea—I had not read anything—"

"It is an uncommon," he interrupted, "and outdated representation."

 _Perhaps not outdated,_ he noted, _but merely unpracticed…_

"… I suggest you keep the Song in mind, however, as you complete the task at hand. It could be beneficial to visualizing your magic, once you have the ability to look inward."

Her brow furrowed and she frowned.

He ignored her discomfort, pressing onward, "Normally, this stage would require solitude. Considering your 'fragile' physical state, I am uncomfortable leaving you alone, or else I would happily vacate this room as I ask you to perform Occlumency to open your mind."

She looked confused, but was not willing to elaborate, and was smart enough not to interrupt him again—

 _Good girl_ , he thought, then cringed at the notion, "I want you to sit very still, your mind clear, your heart-rate steady, and your breathing slow."

"How can my mind be clear and open—"

He pierced her with a glare, and she relented.

"I suggest you first relax your muscles, and take deep, calming breaths. Clear your mind of all other thoughts but, perhaps, the song you visualize when you cast."

She made a face of understanding, her chewed lip freed from its entrapment by her teeth, "Should… should I try to meditate, then?"

He sneered, "If you wish to make such a base conceptualization, then yes. But for all intents and purposes, despite your lack of potential as of late, you are a witch, and thus, you are performing occlusion."

Her frown was disdainful, a breath away from a sneer, "What difference—"

"The intent," he snapped irritably, sweeping up from his desk, "If you were half as versed as you perceive yourself to be, Miss Granger, you would already know the difference. Do not interrupt me again."

She was silenced by that notion, gaping at him in that way she did when she had expected praise and instead received the opposite.

"You are performing the first carnal step of Occlusion: freeing your mind of the constrictions you and society have applied to them. This requires you to open your mind… but first, your mind must be quiet. Then you can listen."

Her eyes met his in understanding, although he could tell she was slightly uncomfortable at the notion.

"You have thirty minutes…"

" _Only_ thirty?" She muttered to herself.

He set a variety of wards around her—including silencing charms—then took a seat at the desk. For the first few minutes, he pointedly thumbed through the nearest tome. His ears, however, were far more strained than they should have been, even knowing that the silencing charm would quench any sound she made (despite ones of distress). A part of him—a tiny part—was reaching out for a tendril of song.

 _Lecher_ , he cringed.

When he did eventually look up five minutes later, she was sitting as straight as possible on the bench, so straight her chin was lifted into the air. Her face was screwed up into such a face of concentration, her skin was turning redder than the field of her house banner…

Where Potter had showed no effort at all, Miss Granger was performing exactly the opposite. It didn't require that much strain to clear one's mind, nor open it… in fact, there needed to be a healthy balance of effort and relaxation to achieve either. Rather than correct her poor form, he rolled his eyes and settled back into the research.

It was going to be a long summer.


	7. Quiet and Dangerous

**A/N: Sorry it took so long! I must have rewritten this chapter at least ten times. I wanted it to be just right (and still don't think it's quite there, but I'm eager to move forward!). I'm in between school and work, so it got a little jumbled. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **-O-O-Chapter Seven-O-O-  
Quiet and Dangerous**

* * *

"You have thirty minutes—"

" _Only_ thirty?"

Professor Snape ignored her and instead produced his wand. It was black, of course. Its handle was not visible to her, but she could only assume that any well-thought design would be simple enough to compliment the elegance of the straight, ebony length. The potion master held the wand so casually, as if it was more of an extension of his hand rather than an object held by it, each finger pressed only loosely against the surface. When he waved it, however, his movements were strict and expert and even the simplest of silencing charms was created with ease and grace she could never aim to mimic.

After casting a myriad of wards (silencing within and without, effectively isolating her from himself and vice versa), his dark eyes trailed towards the ground at her feet. She could not hear him say the words and so her eyes followed the direction of his gaze, toward the dingy floor (less dingy than the potions classroom, but aged nonetheless).Out of the corner of her eye and with simple, but characteristically elegant movements (strict and un-flourished as he was, to the point), the wizard drew a half-dozen jagged symbols around her feet in a radial pattern (supposedly the border of the wards, if the shimmering magic at the edge were any indication).

The slashes of flame-like segments that burned in the wake of Professor Snape's sharp flicking wand movements were runes. She could recognize a few of them... runes that called for peace, for quiet, for insight... and others, which she could not name nor decipher although the images of them were now branded into her brain. The burning runes gradually dispersed, growing fainter until they melted into wisps of smoke which revolved over the stone around her, licking an invisible boundary until they were no more.

Although her skin was significantly warmer (perhaps from a warming charm or simply a side-effect of the mass of charms the wizard had cast around her), the world he had created around her was eerily quiet; silent, rather, except for the dull sound of her own slow, even breaths taken through her nose. Hermione hesitated before opening her mouth, her eyes darting to the wizard across from the desk, who had taken to the nearest tome and promptly ignored her existence, "Professor?"

He made no move to indicate he had heard her. Persistently skeptical, the young witch looked closer at the dark-haired wizard. He was not observing her, as she had thought he might be, but had taken to reading a dark-covered text. His lanky hair fell forward over his scowl, obscuring half his face in that way that it did, making its lankiness obvious. Still, even despite the curtain of inky black, she had a good enough view of his eyes to know that they were focused upon the lines of text and well away from looking at her.

Before she had thought better of it, she said once more, "Professor, I stole boomslang skin and bicorn horn from your stores in my second year!"

There was no response. He continued to glare down at the page of the book as if she was not there at all.

 _Complete and utter privacy..._ For all intents and purposes, she was alone. The wards were cast and she was forgotten to her own devices (although she knew there was a Tempus ticking away somewhere).

 _What must done, must be done._

She set her jaw and closed her eyes without any further prompting-either it would be done, or it wouldn't, but she wouldn't get anywhere if she didn't at first try.

Being the know-it-all that she was, she knew that what he asked was not so simple as flicking a switch from "on" to "off" within her mind. Wiping her thoughts clean was impossible for such a novice as she was, hence his instruction to quiet her mind rather than outright asking for her to sift through the layers of her mind to her magical core. A master like Professor Snape could, in theory, accomplish such task on a whim. She, however, was not a master Occlumens and closing her mind was a bit like trying to cram an entire library of books into an un-charmed Muggle trunk. She knew from experience that strategy would only end in tears.

 _Quiet your mind._

She murmured under breath, "And then you can listen."

But what was a quiet mind? An empty mind... a content mind... no mind at all? If it was not meditation she sought, then what, truly, was inflection... or Occlumency, in general? Obviously, Occlumency and meditation differed in that one required magic and one did not, but Professor Snape explained that their intent was inherently different as well. Meditation was similar to inflection... leading oneself inward for the goal of content, at least.

Inflection's intent was leading oneself inward to understand... understand what?

 _Truth?_

He did not say they were dissimilar. Perhaps, he only merely meant to define inflection as a practice made by a witch and not a Muggle, or a Squib. If that were so... was he trying to boost her confidence? He had already proven she was worthy of at least attempting the impossible (even if it was at Dumbledore's order), but he had never been particularly compassionate before. He had promised there would be no compassion for her...

 _He is a liar by nature,_ a voice reminded her.

 _And yet he is the most honest person I have ever met,_ Hermione argued.

It was true... nearly always, his honesty was unforgettably brutal and borderline cruel.

Like meditation, inflection required a medium to focus upon: a chant, a mantra, an image, a symbol... his suggestion was fitting to the long term task ahead: gauging her magic. What was it he had said about that "song" of hers? _It is unique to you..._

Although she couldn't fancy herself a composer, he had defined it as if she was its creator, as if no one else could lay claim to it but her. She lacked creativity for the composing of music (as her mum had always told her, at least), so was she to assume she had been born with the song? Or was it merely an aftereffect-an echo- of her magic?

Did that mean the Song _was_ her magic? Could the pervasive melody be an alternative visualization of that which she was so desperate to find?

The melody, whatever it was, _had_ always been with her, but it was as elusive to her as the sound of her voice to her own ears—merely an echo of an echo she was not meant to truly know and would not recognize as her own immediately. If her magic was gone, how could she hope to pin it down, when she had been unable to do so all her life?

The first few notes had been memorized since childhood… she could recall them vividly, at will, and with precision. The ones that followed, however, were not always the same. They scattered about in front of her, a myriad of possible directions, as if she was experiencing different sections of the song at different times.

Although quite protected by his magical wards, after his adverse reaction to it, she couldn't help but think that voicing the Song aloud in anyone's presence was somehow an unspoken obstruction of etiquette. Professor Snape had certainly seemed appalled to have experienced the sound of it in her throat-she had never seen him look more embarrassed in her life. Not even when he had acknowledged that she had seen arguably the most private (perhaps second or even third most private, she realized with a blush) aspect of his anatomy had he shown even an ounce of discomfort. But the look in his eyes when he had realized what it was that she had presented to him had been the look of a man capable of not only embarrassment, but mortification. It was masked quickly... he was an Occlumens, after all.

 _How many more expressions lay hiding from the world?_

The mere fantasy of a smiling Professor Snape was enough to sober that thought, and she returned to her musing, grasping at note after note, trying to recall the elusive song. How had it been so easy to recite not that long ago and now was as evasive as the Crumple-Horned Snorkack?

Two minutes later, and she was no surer of the succeeding notes than she had been before. She was drawing breaths in slowly, trying to soothe her jittering nerves, but no amount of concentration could aid her. Her head was beginning to pound from the effort to search every nook and cranny, vainly of course, for a memory of the Song from her childhood, any semblance or flicker of an attempt at the piano—

But it simply did not reveal itself. She dared not even try to fabricate the notes... she could only imagine Professor Snape's sneering response.

And if she couldn't call the Song to her on a whim, then how could she ever find her magic if that's what it represented? Even the last time she had heard it clearly, it had not been completely explicit…

Her face flushed at the memory of that night, draping herself over Professor Snape's exposed body. She stiffened in her chair, uneager to allow her mind to wander to that night when she was so close to the wizard whose privacy she had affronted—to the wizard who had heard the song again tonight and looked as eager to jump out of his skin as Harry had when Cho Chang had first kissed him.

 _Oh gods, what if singing it is some sort of proposal for—_

 _Do you suppose third times the charm, then, Granger?_ A sinister part of her teased.

She gripped the edge of the chair she sat upon and sat up straighter—

 _Nope_ , she decided, _not the bloody Song. I want no part of archaism... there must be something else. I will visualize the magical core, instead. Anything but the Song-not when he is there._

 _He's not even looking at you!_

 _It doesn't matter... his magic is around me. I can't even..._

Hermione was completely mortified. If Professor Snape's embarrassment was massive enough to disrupt his usually calm demeanor, she could only imagine the intensity of her own. She masked it by chomping down on her lip and sitting as straight as possible, head thrown back, brow furrowed. For whatever reason, she held her breath-as if that would assist her in melting into the air as she wanted to do.

 _Anything to forget._

 _You don't even know what it means. Don't be daft_ —You need the song...

She drowned out the thought and began to numbly count numbers. No fuzzy sheep or rather winged hippogriffs followed. For Hermione, numbers were enough to soothe her typically busy mind. Although these oddly took the form of burning runes in her mind's eye…

 _1…_

… _2 …_

… _57…_

… _80…_

… _154…_

 _..394—_

The number was spoken in Professor Snape's voice (she could remember very vividly the way he had drawled it that day in her third year, when she had realized he was trying to oust Lupin) and it was the sound of his silky voice from her memory that thrust her out of her concentration. She would have cursed if she wasn't chewing on her lip so violently—the rune-like number was slashed into her brain with his ebony wand, so straight and strong as he was, and it burned like a fire until it dissolved in dark, swirling smoke.

 _Blast it all to hell_ , she decided, slumping down in the seat in defeat with her hands over her eyes. Overhead, a buzzer dinged, and there was another characteristic sound of bubbles popping and the feeling of an egg cracked over the planes of her skin.

"Eager to concede, Miss Granger?" How could she ever hope to recreate such a dulcet sound? His real voice, hardly comparable to the artificial one she had produced in her head, was smoother than silk, deep and daunting, like chocolate melted directly onto her tongue.

The young witch shivered. In the absence of the warm cocoon of wards he had cast around her, she was now quite aware of chill she had been sporting since that morning. As each spell dissolved away, the icy temperature descended in their place. Her cool skin mixed with the damp lack of heat of the dungeons was not a contrast she had expected and she only barely managed to contain the spasm that curled down her spine in response.

Then his dark eyes were upon her, heavily enough to draw her gaze towards him. The beetle-black irises narrowed in distaste at her jerky movements. She clutched her arms with opposite hands and lurched forward, knees drawn slightly upward to trap whatever heat she could within the folds of her body.

They stared at each other for a long moment. He did not speak immediately and it wasn't as if she had anything worthwhile to report to him. Considering she had failed miserably in her task, she did not expect him to have anything kind to say to her and the curling of his lips was enough to sway her to look away once more and flinch in anticipation of what was to come.

His growing sneer confirmed his displeasure and his words followed in a similar dry fashion, "Your 'attempt' at inflection was lackluster, at best, and depressingly perfunctory, Miss Granger."

 _So much for confidence in your recovery,_ a voice taunted of Madam Pomfrey's assurances. Hermione's shoulders had slumped slightly as he spoke, and she plucked at the loose thread of her father's old jumper distractedly to prevent him from seeing her shaking hands, although she and he both knew his disdain affected her greatly. She was, after all, a swot who craved the praise of her teachers more than any affection from her peers. Although she had not earned it—praise—in this instance, his consistent refusal to oblige her now and always only made her want to earn it from him more.

Unfortunately, this was not a wizard who would _ever_ compliment her… not even on his dying breath. She would die craving his praise, surely, and probably sooner rather than later— _without magic, you'll just shrivel up, empty, like a wrinkled old prune…_

Tears welled, but she bid them away. She wasn't ready to cry about it yet. She still had hope… she still had hope that her magic would not be totally out of reach. As disappointed as he would be, with his help, she could hope further.

She _should_ have known better than to think she could achieve such a task on the first attempt, let alone in a mere thirty minutes. As intelligent and knowledgeable as she was, she was maladroit when it concerned obscurer fields of magic—divination, for example, eluded her understanding. Although she wasn't totally convinced that field was worth the cost of employing Trelawney, she knew that the field was applicable, especially now that she had seen the Hall of Prophecies. The most critical part of her conscience insisted that her inability to "free her mind" had less to do with her teacher or her missing magic and more to do with her great lack of _talent_ with intangible magic like reading tea leaves or, for instance, _creating_ her own potion.

Having done research for Harry in the previous months, she knew this was going to be difficult for her from the moment it had been proposed by Dumbledore—or Snape, she couldn't remember who had first mentioned it. As the potions master had said, Occlumency was not a subject that could be mastered by average wizards without great conviction. It required discipline and devotion, but what he had not said was that that discipline was faceted and obscure, defined differently for each person and difficult to achieve without the gift of a patient nature. Although she was calm (generally), collected (usually), bright (always), she was also, by definition, controlling, high-strung, and needy, attributes that were not conducive to discipline. Patient, she was not—more patient compared to her best friends, but rather impatient with herself, if her inability to accept failure alone was the indication.

And as devoted as she would be to learning inflection (how could she not, when it meant life or death, essentially), she had a harrowing suspicion that no amount of devotion could replace innate magical intuition… the kind reserved for great wizards like Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore… the kind that made them powerful and capable and talented, all that which she was not.

The young witch felt a flush of embarrassment when Professor Snape's eyes narrowed harshly down the length of her face at her silence. She did not let his glare burn for much longer before she answered meekly, "Yes, sir."

"I expected no less than arrogance from the golden Princess of Gryffindor," The potions master's title was one of scorn rather than praise, and it bit over her skin like frost. Still, she could have snorted at his words—it was quite the opposite, actually, though she did not aim to correct his assumption. He smirked in her direction, "Did you assume you could bypass the task at hand without consequence, Miss Granger?"

She frowned, "You said to focus on the Song—"

"Yes," he snapped, "I told you to _focus_ on your Song, but not to the point that you realized it would not appear simply because you were turning blue in the face. Did you imagine you would go fishing for it and find your magic in one fell swoop and our task would be, graciously, behind us?"

She cringed at the implication… surely, he could understand her hastiness to be returned to her magic?

 _Aren't you hasty to get away from his sneering, as well?_

 _Not particularly,_ she realized shamefully. Although he was very clearly devoted to hating her, she knew she could learn great things from him. If she had been told that losing her magic would mean spending inordinate amount of time with the knowledgeable man… well, perhaps she would have allowed it.

 _Truly daft,_ she bemoaned of herself. It wasn't as if he would ever spare her the time needed to pick his brain of the knowledge she wanted from him.

She wasn't willing to explain to him that her discomfort with the song had led her to abandon the strategy altogether. He would probably skin her alive if she did.

"Once again, you have proven yourself foolishly hasty, unable to complete one task before you begin the next. Shortcuts may well be the quickest courses of action—but they are often the most treacherous."

Her ears were pounding as he spoke, and her hands, gripping her forearms, felt heavy and clumsy. Her skin was growing icier by the second, even though she had layered herself in clothes beneath the jumper. She endured the discomfort, because she knew that his words were the only thing that would lead her to find her magic once again. Even if she felt dizzy and drained, she could focus only on his speech and hope he would not notice her weakness.

"There are many aspects of the human mind, and of one's magic, that can be evaluated using inflection—when it is employed by a witch or wizard who has reshaped their thoughts. Only through occlusion can looking inward can be accomplished with both ease and precision," he sneered when she curled her body forward slightly, trapping the heat that was rapidly escaping from her, "If you lack the focus needed to even calm your mind, how can you expect to sift through all of your pestilent, superfluous thoughts and emotions to find your magic—as of yet ignorantly undefined? Let alone, when you have drained your power within a millimeter of its life?"

The question hung in the air as his nostrils flared and he stooped over the desk to accuse her with his black, glaring eyes.

"When you have mastered Occlumency, if you ever do, you will eventually be able to look inward at any given moment and you will _understand_ why it is that you cannot do so without first mastering your mind through inflection."

"I will understand…" She muttered to herself, her teeth chattering slightly, "Understand myself, you mean—in a way?"

Professor Snape glowered—but for a moment, she thought his eyes seemed to narrow down her face critically, "Yes, naturally; as conceited as you might be, you do not hold the answers to the universe inside your bushy head, Miss Granger. What other answers do you hope to find within the wrinkles of your obnoxious cerebrum?"

She blushed, and avoided his dark gaze, biting her lip to keep her teeth from clamoring together.

"How…" she began when he did not continue, "How do I quiet my mind?"

His fingers made a steeple beneath his chin, "You must accept it—you must accept nothingness. You must accept ignorance."

Her heart grew icy, "Accept… But—"

"You have been born and raised to believe that the mind must be filled with pitiful fancies—true inflection requires that you accept in your understanding that a mind need not be full to be wise. A mind need only be prepared for everything and nothing at all."

Hermione felt understanding wash over her.

 _Like meditation—_

 _Don't purposefully push his buttons simply because you are a failure._

 _He does it to me!_

 _He has every right to._

 _One day,_ she decided, even as weak as she was, _perhaps I will have the upper hand and I can push his buttons without fear of retribution._

 _When you can call Draco Malfoy a friend will that happen._

"A quiet mind is dangerous, Miss Granger," he began to drawl, "With it, a witch could uncover all the potential she has smothered by her insufferableness."

Hermione blinked…

Then blinked again.

 _Did he just say you have potential?_

She blushed furiously, but he was not looking at her. His back was turned—

When he spun on his heel, she reared backwards at the expression he was wearing. It was dark, calculating, determined. Powerfully unnerving.

"If I were an enemy—" he stepped backward, but it was in no means hindering to the dangerous way he moved, like a lithe predatory panther, "Your first action would not be to think-you would simply act as your instinct led you to."

Hermione would agree... either she would, on instinct, freeze with fear, or react. She thought of the ministry, of her indecision, and how overthinking had nearly cost her her life several times.

"What would your first instinct tell you to do, Granger?" He sneered towards her, his wand pointed directly at her.

"I… I don't have a wand," she murmured, warily glaring down the black length of ebony.

His eyes narrowed darkly, and his smirk became dark and twisted, "You have arms and legs and teeth, Miss Granger—weapons unused by many wizards but effective nonetheless. We both know your true nature… you would fight me, if you were forced, with whatever weapon you had at your disposal."

Hermione looked at him in bewilderment, "I… do you want me to fight you, Professor?"

He smirked down at her. There was a strange, feral glint in his eyes, "First, you must find me."

His eyes, a shade away from oblivion, were trained intently on her face for a moment. And then… they were gone, leaving her gasping and blinking at the pace he had just occupied. Professor Snape, in an instant, had melted into the shadows, dissolving with a sharp jab of his wand towards the floor. The candles followed, dimming until the entire room was but a shade away from blackness.

Her eyes were still trained on the spot where he had just been standing, now nothing but blackness, then darted to the side. A jar was sent flying towards the air, growing visible only when it was nearly connecting with her feet, and she jumped up to scoop it up in her hands. It darted away from her, towards the ground and she made a sound of discouragement.

And then she felt the wand press into the side of her neck—a cold pressure that seemed to hum when it connected with her skin. He had tricked her easily...

She stilled immediately. He was intimately close—so close she could feel the magic vibrating from behind her. So close she could smell the patchouli that seemed to radiate from his robes.

So close the warmth of him washed over her as if he had just draped the emerald throw around her shoulders once more.

"Suppose you are facing certain death—and in a way, Miss Granger, you are facing certain death. I am a dangerous wizard and you are quite helpless, quite… magicless. You must rely on instinct only if you have any chance to defeat someone as quick and powerful as a Death Eater—" as him, he was no doubt implying, "—if you wish to survive any forthcoming duel and especially one where you are without wielding a maximum amount of magic, you must free yourself from the constrictions of your mind and allow yourself to _listen_. You cannot afford any misgiving... you must be aware of the world within you, if you want to prepare for the world around you."

"Am I expected to duel without magic?" she replied, forgetting her place in her haze of being so near to him, "Sir?"

"This is war-you will fight if you must, with or without magic," His eyes narrowed at her—she could feel them upon her… was that a part of instinct, or were she imagining it? "Just because you are focusing your attention to Occlumency does not mean this lesson cannot relate to Defense, Miss Granger. It is your weakest subject, after all, as I am certain you would agree—with and especially without magic."

She felt her face flush—how had he known that?

 _He's a Legilimens—and teachers gossip as much as students at Hogwarts._

The thought of Snape gossiping with Professor Sinistra or Professor Vector about her made her stomach feel heavy. She didn't want to know why that was.

"Do not underestimate the power of inflection, the power of a _quiet_ mind—it can serve you well during the war to come and well beyond the task at hand," he warned, stepping around her—or at least, she thought he was, and so she spun to search the room for any sign of distress to detect him, "Tonight, you were clearing your mind for one reason only, Miss Granger… perhaps, however, you require a broader definition."

She was feeling an odd sensation in her stomach—the same she had felt in the ministry. Was this her magic… or was it the instinct he was speaking so eloquently about? It was tugging on her, leading her to reach out to her left. Her hand was swatted a way with a tap of ebony (invisible of course). There was movement behind her and she turned, but the feeling was gone, smothered when she squinted in the dark.

"Mastering inflection will set you free in ways your precious Potter never even dreamed about—never even cared to attempt. If you hope to prove yourself worthy of the art of Occlumency, then you must shed the layers that you have built around your mind to delve within its depths, to allow what hides within to be exposed. Just as you must _listen_ now to find me in this room—listen to your instinct— you must listen within to find your magic. And just as you must do both to master Occlumency, you will protect your mind from intrusion—and your secrets from exposure—by _quieting your mind_."

Hermione shivered as his breath could be felt near her.

He was stalking away from her, however… she could feel the distance between them grow, although she could not define how, "If you cannot… then you are not capable of listening! It is there—faint, but flickering. Can you find it, Miss Granger?"

His voice ended in a hiss that had her reaching for a wand she did not have. The movement was enough to send him rushing past her, leading her to swivel and back up away from the desk that had appeared as her eyes adjusted to the dark.

She was slightly dizzy from all the spinning movements, but tried to find him by his voice. He was certainly behind her, although she could not tell if he was slightly left or slightly right. Not directly—but he _was_ behind her. She did not turn all the way around to face him, but nodded slightly.

Her eyes drifted close for a moment—she didn't need them, considering he was Disillusioned and she could hardly see anything but shadow, after all. If he wanted her to listen, then she supposed now was as good a time as ever.

"How do I silence it—my mind?" She murmured the words, her hands reaching out in a radius around her. Through the darkness, she was reminded that she was unafraid of him—although her heart-rate pounded, she did not for once think he would hurt her.

Still, she was unnerved both by his strange actions and her lack of sight.

He spoke, almost angrily, "I've already told you! How many times and in different ways must you hear it before you _understand_?"

Silence met her ears as she stood still as stone, absorbing the shock of his anger into her skin like smoke into her lungs, eyes closed over tears and hands only slightly reaching outward, towards his voice. After, the room was a deafening void, no sound to be heard or made, and yet somehow it was soothing to her soul rather than eerie as it had been before.

She was fully focused on listening for Professor Snape—straining to hear even the barest of breaths so she could pinpoint his location, and yet knowing that it was not her ears that were truly listening, but every inch of her body. In that moment, every centimeter of skin, every molecule of being, was attuned, humming, anticipating his next move...

For a moment, it was so eerily quiet, that she began to think he had left her, or that she had ascended into some sort of incorporeal plane, until the sounds of his velvety voice spoke from her left, echoing so loudly it vibrated along her skin and yet not in a way that her ears had found him. She reached out, towards her left, but was unable to complete the movement as a hand grabbed her elbow and squeezed.

The wand found her neck again—warm wood and magic that stung only slightly, perhaps not at all considering her skin was merely hypersensitive after… well, after searching for him.

She could only react to being seized to him by trembling violently and stumbling. It was as if he had jerked her out of a deep sleep, as if she had been expelled from her body and then immediately drawn back into it. Her skin felt heavier than it ever had, stretched and strained over the sharper angles of her limbs—as if she had just been aware of it for the first time in her life. Her fingers felt clumsy, too long for her hands. Her breath felt short, and her hair was a mass she couldn't hope to carry—

Surprisingly, the hand cupped her elbow was warm rather than searing through the cloth that kept him from touching her skin directly. It only remained for a moment, long enough to keep her from crumbling to dust at his feet, and was gentler than when he had initially taken her in hand.

His grip and his wand returned to their place within the folds of his voluminous robes as he suddenly stepped away from her, his expression blank but his eyes burning with a fire she could not pin.

Hermione was heaving her breath in through her nose, and held his gaze for a long moment.

His voice was surprisingly soft as he spoke, "Listening to the world within is not so different from listening to the world without, Miss Granger. Remember as such and this will be an easier task for us both."

Hermione mulled that over for a moment, gathering her breath through her nose and staring anywhere but at him. How could she look at him, when her body was still trembling from his touch?

 _Strong and steady_ , she mused, _like iron, like steel._

 _And here you are, a weed wobbling in the wind!_

 _It may as well have already swept me away…_

How she hungered to be like him—strong, unmoving… dangerous, powerful.

When she met his gaze again, Professor Snape held it, his face impassive, unmoving as he was. He then inclined his head politely, and stalked towards the half-bare shelf behind him, his back to her. She watched it intently, imaging the horror that lay beneath, wondering if it ailed him painfully at that moment, ever, or always, "If you learn anything during these… sessions, you will learn how to be a master of your own mind—free of the conventions others have placed upon you, free of weakness of mind and heart, free of want and need, free of the chains that bind you to your emotions… perhaps, free of pain."

She had never met a man that was as cold and hot as he was; it was as if the only emotions he felt were indifference or anger. What did he, the man, truly feel, when his shields were not up protecting him, when his mask was not in place? She could never hope to know the answer, but she still yearned, in that moment, to know what he was feeling in his heart of hearts.

Was this the point of Occlumency? To remove her emotions? To avoid her pain? Or was that how Professor Snape defined Occlumency? After all, he was a spy… he used it to protect his secrets, and, more than likely, to protect himself. It was his most powerful tool—what made him the enigma that he was. If she could model it after him, if she could embrace it as fully as he did, would she too be a master of shadow?

And yet, she couldn't help but wonder what else he was protecting—what, besides the Order's secrets, or You-Know-Who's, hid behind the mask, the walls, the Occlumency?

Whatever it was, she liked it... she liked the lack of thought that had followed their little exercise, although once upon a time it would have terrified her to be anything akin to mindless. The sensations she had endured, although brief, were enough to thrill her long untended daring Gryffindor nature.

"When you have mastered this task, we will be able to focus on retrieving your magic—the sooner, the better, as they say," he added, turning around to grace her with a gaze that burned right into her soul, "I fully expect you to practice on your own time. The next we meet, you will have at least _quieted_ your mind, if not opened it."

When he turned to face her completely, he did not look handsome any longer, but dark and angry and cruel, haunted in a way, with his face twisted harshly into ugly planes ending in sharp angles and his eyes fathomless. His left arm was behind his back, but he waved his wand in his right hand (not his dominant hand, she realized, but still quite able to cast), and a stack of books appeared all at once in her lap. She struggled to catch them as they teetered forward, but managed to gather them in a heap to her chest and resting her chin in the topmost to keep it balanced.

"Reference these to your heart's content."

She opened her mouth to thank him mechanically, but he curtly interrupted her, "Treat them as you would treat your own."

She nodded, and he stared. After a time, he quirked a brow, "You are dismissed."

"But..." she began, then hurriedly continued, "Will we meet every day? Always at this time? Or will you send for me—perhaps by owl? No, that's silly—by Floo, then, to the infirmary? Or… I have so many questions about inflection—"

"Answer them yourself, Granger. Have I not given you the tools to do so?"

She stood, motionless, torn between persisting and relenting. Then he was glaring at her, silencing any words she would have spoken with a sharp wave of his hand. The door opened behind her, and she stumbled backwards towards it hesitantly, her eyes unwavering from him. She stared at him for a long moment, absorbing the almost painfully cold expression on his face, flabbergasted at the abrupt dismissal and his lack of cordiality or clarity.

She headed towards the open door after a time, spinning on her heel to flee from the pregnant stiffness of the office. Once she was within the corridor, she turned around to thank him for his time and insight, "Professor—"

The door, however, slammed in her face, swallowing her "Thank you" and leaving her abashed in the empty corridor. After a time, she lifted her fingertips, stroking the door, wishing she could relay some of the peace of mind he had given her back. Even as she struggled to balance her tower, she opened the first book with her chin, and read as she walked, her eyelashes practically brushing the parchment.

She didn't want to admit it, but she needed him. She needed him desperately, if she had any hope of finding her magic. It was clear now that she could not accomplish this task without him—how could she, when her mind truly was as closed as he said it had been? Never before had she felt so aware, and yet so calm in life, than when she had been trying to _hear_ him—his magic, his soul, whatever it was that had led her to his direction in utter darkness.

Now, more than ever, she knew that she could not turn away from him, because he offered her a world in the shadows that she had never known she wanted. But of course she would—she was an insufferable know-it-all. If there was knowledge to be had, she would surely sniff after it... as far as her morals would lead her, of course. She had no desire to learn dark magic, but knew the only way to combat it was to face it without fear.

"I will not disappoint you, sir," she told the book in her hands, as he was not there to hear it, nor would it lighten the darkness that weighed upon his soul. For now, saying it aloud was enough to lighten her own. She had forgotten the chill that had plagued her, and instead felt a warmth akin to the cocoon of wards he had cast about her. Only hours later, when she was huddled over a stack of books did she even have a need to reach for the emerald throw.

* * *

When she was gone, hidden behind the closed door, Severus sat harshly down at his chair and peeled back his left sleeve to peer at the aching, blackened mark. It was not a summons, but a warning—a courtesy he hardly wanted nor cared for, as it could mean nothing good either way.

What had he done to irritate the Dark Lord? Surely, he wasn't of any use to the wizard, except to torment him for his failures… unless there was an event he had forgotten about (and Severus forgot nothing). Perhaps there was a plan in motion that he was to be a part of and this was the dark lord's form of foreplay. If it was so, Lord Voldemort was sending him an invitation of sorts, to prepare him for the glory that was to follow. Severus was fully expected to enjoy the anticipation... too bad he had never been an excited sort of person, nor would he ever look forward to any of the dark lord's plans.

He pondered his nauseating curiosity to the nature of the invitation, but did not let it fester. It wasn't pressing enough that he should worry, although it might be wiser to do so. The Dark Lord still expected dignity from him, at least. He was graciously allowed a certain amount of time to recover, considering he had not been directly involved in the failure of the Department of Mysteries and had endured an all-too fitting punishment. He would be allowed to arrive when he saw fit to do so...

Severus sighed; as wise as it would be to go immediately, he wasn't ready to return to the ranks. With every meeting with the dark lord, he felt a little less like himself and more like _him_ , the man that he had been before, a weaker, stupider man… but alas, it was his duty to go to the side of the monster and play the part he had practically written for himself. As the burning sensation faded in his arm (but certainly not his still wounded back), he ached instead for a firewhisky.

Alas, it would be unwise to allow himself such an indulgence if he were to be summoned in the near future. For the sake of the Order, the damnable fools, he would need pure lucidity until the war was over and done (a pity he would not be alive to get pissed drunk for the first time in ages). Lucky for the sodding idiots, Severus was more devoted to them than they ever would be to him, or he would have been perpetually drunk since Potter had born the happy news after the conclusion of Triwizard Tournament.

He was loyal to them, although they would never know it. Yes, Lily had led him to them, but it was his twisted honor that prevented him from abandoning the lot. For such a man as he, loyalty was such a strange thing... considering his was rather fruitless, it was doubly so. The concept, in general, was foreign to many Slytherins. For a boy from a broken home with a mother as serpentine as they came, an act of loyalty was hard to swallow at times. It was especially in that moment when his throat slickened with his craving for alcohol. But he had one too many tragic reminders of what lack of loyalty would cost him, and the events that had led to Lily Evans' death were enough to sway him towards it even now, decades later, for people he didn't even like, let alone love with every centimeter of his existence as he had the beautiful Muggleborn Gryffindor.

Carefully, he traced a fingertip down the curve of the black skull that marred his left forearm as he remembered the exact curve of her face, resisting the queasy rumbling of disgust and embracing the twisting of regret as he did so. The Dark Mark was a strange symbol for him... its meaning was as contradictory as he was and thus bound him as surely to the dark as it did the light.

Years had passed since Severus could look at the Mark and feel an ounce of pride. He hated looking at it... hated feeling it crawl along his skin during the night when he wanted rest, whenever Potter looked upon him. Now, when the marking burned it was a pain far worse than any other, worse than the chronic ailment of the curse he could not wash himself of. The physical pain did not compare, but the emotional pain was enough to cripple another man. The Mark was a symbol of slavery, of abandon of his rights as a free wizard.

For him, the double agent, it was a clear-cut representation of each and every regret, a reminder that he could not belong to either side truly. All the choices that had led to taking it had led him to failure, ending tragically in the death of the woman he loved. But it reminded him that it was his duty to continue, to make sure her death was not in vain, that her wishes would be fulfilled. As much pain as it had caused, the Mark was the physical embodiment of the honor he could never reveal to the world, the honor no one would ever believe he had and, sometimes, cherished.

It was hardly commendable, but it was his nonetheless…

 _Gods, you are pathetic_ , he bemoaned, shoving his sleeve down over his forearm, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling, _what's gotten into you, lately, Severus?_

 _Honor,_ he goaded. What a pitiful notion—he would be better off leaving it in the willing hands of Potter, or Granger. She had enough of it for them both—

 _Foolish girl_ , he nearly snarled. She wanted more from him that he could give—she had already drawn out of him that which he had not planned to give. Surely, he had planned to berate her further, but a spark of inspiration had led him to the dramatic demonstration. He had always had a flair for theatrics—it was, after all, the only thing that got him through every boring first through fourth year potions lesson. Of course, had he been blessed with the Defense position, his theatrics would be well met, perhaps enjoyed…

He would probably never know, as Albus refused his applications every year, either out of mistrust or necessity, Severus did not know—

His mind flashed to the girl and how she had reacted to his demonstration. She was not as inept at defense as he had led on-her stance enough was evidence of that. She had no wand, but she had been able to face the dark without crumbling, and that was more than enough when faced with evil. If she could face the dark... well, then she was more capable than half of even his own house.

It might be superfluous, but this was perhaps the perfect opportunity to put his unused defensive lessons to good use. He had a student in need of teaching, a student who was arguably ten times more vulnerable than any other at Hogwarts... why not make her suffer for her ineptitude as he would any other? Why not force her to be better, considering no one else had ever attempted to do so?

He rubbed a hand over his chin, contemplating the future that was ahead. Miss Granger had done better than he had thought she would—she had very nearly grabbed him by the hip when she had reached out last. Mortification, he found, was always a necessary catalyst to reaching success in learning—preventing accidents from happening in the potions classroom through highlighting their faults was enough to lead students to, at the very least, try harder. And surely, grabbing her professor intimately would embarrass her to not reach blindly like that towards an enemy again—

But he had grabbed her, preventing it, because Miss Granger did not need to try harder… She needed inspiration.

With that, he realized that he had sorely misjudged her. Although she was studious and insufferable, she was a Gryffindor for a reason. She was best when she was on her feet, in the thick of it—hadn't that been why he had attacked Potter's mind so voraciously, because he would have responded only to action and not studiousness? Miss Granger was somewhere in between, but at the heart of her, she was a Gryffindor—more so than any other in her house.

He was reminded of Minerva's insistence that they were, in some way, kindred spirits. Now that he had seen it, he could not ignore the hunger in her eyes when he was speaking to her after his little demonstration. Thankfully, it was not desire of a baser nature, not sexual or fanciful—but a desire for knowledge… and power, power that he had and she did not think she could ever obtain.

Hermione Granger did want to be powerful, as he had not expected her to—another judgement on his part. It was deeply buried beneath her morals and teenage confusions, but he could sense it in her as easily as he could sense it in his own soul. She wanted to be strong and fearless and, perhaps, feared—or maybe just admired, as he couldn't imagine her wanting to lord over anyone like he did.

Regardless of his current schemes, she was far from achieving power. In fact, she had completed the opposite. He wondered, however, if she were to find her magic again, if that need for power would be quenched, or if it would burn onward until she was an unstoppable force of nature?

He should have felt jealous, but instead he felt strangely… proud. It was the second time he had been proud of her in his lifetime, and it felt like treachery to an old, consummate Slytherin. She was not his to be proud of, after all, and he had no right to feel as such. Still, she had turned to him for help, and even though he had been commanded to give it to her, she still trusted him with her life, and her future. There some Slytherins who would not do the same, no matter how many times he had saved their skin…

 _Perhaps not even Draco trusts you so blindly._

He stood and grabbed a neat journal behind him—it was filled with his (unused) defensive lessons. If he was to be in charge of Miss Granger's recovery, then surely he would be in charge of making certain she was protected-by means of her own accord, at least. Dumbledore had said she was important… why not make certian she could hold her own and then some?

 _You are taking advantage of a girl's physical and magical illness—_

 _Don't I deserve some sort of compensation for this fiasco? Don't I deserve at least a bit of fun on my holiday?_

 _Fun? Teaching a Gryffindor chit to defend herself is fun? You are mad._

 _Perhaps._

 _The song has gotten to you—Do not let your emotions rule your thoughts, Severus._

 _I have no emotions,_ he replied, turning off the nagging voice that sounded slightly like his mother.

The lessons were broad enough that they could be put to good use to accommodate a girl without magic… if she, gods forbid, could not protect herself with her own magic, she could at least fend off a magical attacker for as long as possible. If he could not teach her Occlumency, then he would teach her to defend herself.

But of course, she _would_ learn Occlumency—he knew she was capable. He could lie to others, but he could not lie to himself. He would teach her defense alongside Occlumency and she would learn both beautifully, after all, he was a magnificent instructor.

This was the only way he would not go insane in this castle all summer… There was not much to be done, although he complained otherwise. Suffering the dark lord's hand took its toll, but to be honest, brewing Lupin's Wolfsbane and restocking the infirmary were the only other pressing tasks… he would lose his mind after the first week. Idle hands did not become him. He refused to feel like Black—cooped up in the castle like a leper, chained to the girl until she succeeded in finding her magic again.

If he had to babysit her, he would make every day productive for them both. Like Molly Weasley's campaign of cleaning, a summer with Severus Snape would be spent learning defense and Occlumency… Hermione Granger was incapable of being a spy, but she would be a formidable opponent to his brothers if given the opportunity.

 _She is but a child…_

 _No, she is not,_ he snapped, _she shed that armor when she stepped foot in the Ministry of Magic and lifted her wand against Death Eaters._

Or maybe even before then, when she had been subject to the cruelty of Umbridge.

For the first time in days, the ache in his back lessened as he poured over the texts and schemed about what was to come—although it was the least pressing matter, he was most excited for the defense lessons. She would not expect them, of course… he would need to make it seem as if it were a punishment, rather than a reward.

 _She will hate you after this... for ruining her childhood._

 _She already hates me…_

 _Does she?_ It was a tiny voice.

He was reminded of dripping water over icy skin, of a touch so gentle he had not felt another like it, and a song…

 _Do not think of the Song._

Still, as the first notes washed over him, he felt the tension leave his face, and his shoulders slacken with relief. It was cruel, truly, to have heard it and be unable to do anything with it. She was such an ignorant little fool… so bright and yet so new to the world. A part of him felt cheated, but another part was glad that she would not know what to do with the Song next. If he wanted to prevent an even greater disaster, she must never know what it truly meant.

He made a mental note to obtain the one book he knew was in the library on the subject… she could not know anything about it unless he himself wanted to be simple fact that he had been able to find it initially was enough reason to be alarmed.

 _Not as if she_ would _do anything with it—_

His hands were motionless on the page… but if she did?

 _Never,_ he decided. Never would that happen. A part of him constricted, but another part—his resolve—grew stronger.

Before he had a chance to return to his work, the fire flared emerald, darting towards the ceiling as if he had not just snuffed it away hours before. He wiped his hand over the lessons and they disappeared into his private rooms. Why? Well, Dumbledore might not approve of the idea—he might think Severus was getting ideas in his head about honor, and all that. He might think Severus enjoyed being helpful.

 _Can't let him think that,_ a snide voice decided.

 _Certainly not._

Not to mention, although Miss Granger was an adult, she was still a student. Albus was fully willing to allow the students to prepare themselves for war, but was not exactly keen on letting his Death Eater spy put forth a similar effort.

"What do you want?" He growled low, without looking down to meet his eye, all thoughts of honor abandoned for the irritation he felt at the headache that was brewing.

"How was she?" The headmaster inquired at him, "I don't have much time to spare to talk, but I wanted to check in."

"Don't bother if you're busy," the Potions Master growled at him, still fixating upon the ceiling, "There's nothing eventful going on, I assure you."

The blue eyes probably twinkled, "Is something the matter, Severus?"

"Yes, actually," the man replied, although it was a lie—he felt better today than he had for a week, "My time should be served elsewhere, in a task more conducive to this cause and far more achievable."

"Now, now," Albus smiled jovially, as if he had not just spoken a truth but whined like a child who had not received the candy he had asked for, "I'm sure she fared better than I did at her age with such a task and without magic no less. You have not said otherwise, so must I presume that she did, indeed, fare better than you had expected?"

Severus glared at the old man, "Hardly—she's perhaps too tightly wound for Occlumency, Albus. I fear the task hopeless… especially without her magic. Today she may have scraped by, but if she were to face the dark lord any time soon—"

The old man made a face of understanding, "If there is anyone who can help her, it is you. Do all that you must to prepare her for the war to come."

Severus eyes narrowed in suspicion—had this been the old fool's plan all along?

 _Probably… but no matter! You will do it regardless._

 _Why do I even care?_ He bemoaned to himself, spitefully, _I'll be killed for this._

 _You're going to die anyways. You're already a traitor._

Of course, there was another reason, but he wasn't willing to face it. The image of Miss Granger's blood stained fingers was enough to keep his mind focused on the wrinkled face in front of him, as ugly and old as it was.

"What if I don't _want_ to help her?" Severus growled indignantly, "You know her better—you teach her."

The headmaster didn't frown, but smiled, in that infuriating way, as if he understood Severus better than Severus understood himself, "Actually, Severus, you perhaps know her better than I… you have taught her for five years and know what will work best to teach her. After all, I have spoken with her only a handful of times... arguably, you have had many more opportunities to understand her better."

 _You've pried inside her head a dozen times more,_ Severus wanted to accuse. Although he was guilty of surveying student thoughts, he showed far better restraint than the meddling man before him. Then again, the old man would never be able to hear her Song, not like Severus.

 _Lecher,_ a part of him convulsed.

Not that knowing Miss Granger's mind, or being aware of her Song, would help him—she was the one who needed to understand it better.

"It's pointless," the potions master snarled once more, "We cannot hope to achieve the impossible."

He still hated her. He still disliked her. She was still Potter's… but the thought of it being impossible made him want to make certain that it wasn't.

The amber of her eyes had burned at him with such ferocity, he was compelled to see them once again burning with magic, dancing happily as they did when she was, of course, not looking at him but someone else. Ignorance and innocence were now far beyond her reach, but perhaps Potter would stand a chance with such a potentially dangerous witch at his side. They would dance dangerously, instead…

For him, no, but dance nonetheless.

"You might find, Severus, that even the most hopeless notions have a fraction of possibility if one can overlook the fact that it is, indeed, impossible," the old man answered, "Maybe not for years yet, but one day, you will see it come to pass—For now, please, help Miss Granger because I have asked it of you. We have much to do, and we cannot waste energy wishing for tasks more becoming of us."

"Fine—But there is another matter I must discuss with you," the potions master sneered in his direction, remembering his conversation with Draco—how could he have forgotten about his godson?

"It must be addressed when I return. I, myself, have a dismal task that will absorb my attention for several days and I depart this evening," he looked older than time itself when he said as such, "Give Miss Granger my regards when you cross paths with her next—hopeless as it is, we must do all that we can for her while we are able. If you have need of his services, Fawkes has been instructed to wait for you at the gates whenever you do indeed depart. Professor Hagrid is otherwise occupied, of course, as you already know. Be well, Severus."

The flames burst and died, leaving Severus once again alone in his office, perturbed at the headmaster's elusive comments and unable to pry as he wished to. He settled into his desk, the burning once again persistent in his back, and wished, for once, he could have the clarity or courage to end this war that plagued him at every turn, to focus on his research and his heart's desires (which, at the moment, was firewhisky).

For now, however, the only thing he could do was clear his mind before the dark lord picked through it, and perhaps devise a plan risky enough to keep Miss Granger—and Potter—alive till the end.


	8. Free

**A/N: I put this up in a rush, so sorry for the errors (most were minor plot and have been fixed!) I felt the story was coming on slowly, hence the letter sequence. This might occur again sometime, so if you didn't like it let me know and I'll think of something else! Have a beautiful day, read and review :).**

 **Thank you to all of my reviewers; your input keeps me motivated, and that means a lot with all I have going on. This is my hobby and I thank you for making me feel as if it is at least appreciated. Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter Eight  
Free

* * *

 _Miss Granger,_

 _I will be indisposed for an undetermined amount of time. Any correspondence to your parents or friends should be sent through secure channels. Professor Snape will see to their deliveries in my (hopefully brief) absence._

 _Mr. Weasley has passed on this letter from your parents; I believe it will answer the question you posed in your note._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore_

* * *

 _Dearest Hermione,_

 _Mr. Weasley has just transformed a napkin into this parchment before my very eyes. Honestly, I know that you wizards and witches can perform much grander spells than that, but the existence of magic is still as confounding to me as it was six years ago... I admit it was quite awe-inspiring to witness. Your mother took it in stride, in that way that she does—she rolled her eyes at me when I flipped the page over to inspect it for blemishes (I am a creature of science, after all). Mr. Weasley, of course, is a fine wizard as you have said—inspect the parchment yourself: it is pristine as if it were crafted by hand, or perhaps more so. What mechanism of imagination is lent to the design of the parchment? Can you change the color... the texture..._

 _Imagine my amusement when immediately after my bumbling awe, the wizard then began to carry on a conversation with your mother about the nature of "Nausea Gas" as if it were the most fascinating invention. Mrs. Weasley doesn't appear as interested in the subject, but Mr. Weasley seems captivated by every word coming out of your mother's mouth as I write this. Bless that man, he makes me feel like less of a fool about all of this wizarding stuff._

 _Anyway, your mother reminds me I have limited time to write this, considering we have no owl of our own (until you return a letter to us, at least). The Weasleys_ _have kindly informed us of your last decision to remain at Hogwarts. While I know very much about "Nausea Gas", I know very little about potions or healing, so I can only imagine they are subjects that your brilliant mind is tackling beautifully—and with not simply a nurse, but the potions master to aid you? I daresay, daughter, you will be the most superb medical magical theorist, and how magnificent an opportunity for you, Hermione, and how noble a cause for your beautiful heart to lend your intelligence to the care of those less fortunate than you._

 _Of course, we would have urged you to accept had you had the time to consult us first._ _Fret not that you didn't. Growing up is futile, after all, and we can do very little to stop you from it. We trust you to make sound decisions that benefit your future and those around you. There has never been a doubt in our minds that you are, at the very least, devoted to your academic achievement and thus our ills to be without you are soothed (but only slightly; we do love you so dearly and miss you every moment)._

 _I could go on forever about how proud I am and how proud your mother is, but, unfortunately, Mr. Weasley's accelerated lesson in anesthesia and the remaining length of napkin-parchment are at their ends (as well as Mrs. Weasley's patience, by the looks of it). Whenever you receive this letter, know that we are thinking of you, and that your mother and I remain supportive of your academic endeavors, magical and ordinary._

 _Write us often, and visit if you are able to spare us the time._

 _Be good,_

 _Dad_

* * *

 _Hermione,_

 _It's barely been a day since end of term. I hate it here, but I know you're having a worse time than I am. While I know you said you'll be getting better in no time, I'm not convinced. I've been in far worse shape and nobody's kept me back for summer. While you are definitely the smartest person I've ever met, you sometimes forget that I am not as much of an idiot as I seem to be._

 _So unless you're nutters and_ wanted _to stay to study (it wouldn't surprise me), then something is up and I want to know what's going on. I want to help. Remember my promise (I_ will _find a way). If not, then if you've already started the homework, I need help with my Cheering Charms essay. It's been so boring here that I've already started. What a miserable summer already, right?_

 _Anyway, get well soon and I will hopefully see you at the Burrow (I hope I get there ASAP *please, Merlin*!)_

 _Love,_

 _Harr_ _y_

 _PS – I just remembered that I never finished my History OWL, what with all that happened… do you think I've flunked it?_

* * *

 _Mum and Dad,_

 _I am so relieved that you are not angry with me. It means everything to me that both of you support my decision, regardless of how instinctively I chose to make it without you. As you inferred, the opportunity presented itself so suddenly and was so lucrative that I found myself being barely hesitant to accept it. Hence, here we are, me still at Hogwarts and you both, comfortably, in London. Not to say that I'm not comfortable: it is quite the opposite… I just miss Home with you. It seems like yesterday life was so simple. My world was so small and tiny and now it seems like it is infinitely large and unmanageable. It definitely correlates with my distance from you both, or perhaps it is simply a fact of growing up._

 _It has been months since I've seen you and I felt so guilty when I realized that staying would limit the scarce time I have to spend at home. It was only after the train had left that I realized that I had forgotten to relay the news to you both, but I was so overwhelmed with excitement and nervousness. Not to mention, this year has just been so taxing with OWLs and the fact that our newest and ministry-appointed defense teacher (who resigned, thank Merlin!) was sorely incompetent, as I predicted she would be. We've been teaching ourselves what we would need to know to succeed in the subject, considering the only thing she was good for was getting my (and Harry's, of course) blood to boil. After the tragedy of last year, we've all been slightly tense and she only added to it. While you would tell me that worrying won't change my scores, I am eager to know whether or not our valiant efforts have improved my OWL scores in the subject. Cross your fingers, Mum-it only works when you do it, so I'll know if you haven't._

 _It's rather exciting, however, to be done with this year. OWLs are extremely important to the wizarding world as they are critical for acceptance into the NEWT level courses which determine a witch's eligibility for particular jobs. To have been given this opportunity, my teachers must have had confidence in my abilities, considering I have not yet received any official scores. I am truly grateful to them, and I hope one day that I will be able to repay them. Some more than others, as I feel as if in some ways I owe them my life as well as my privilege._

 _My internship, for lack of a better term, will not only look good on a resume, but will be valuable to my future as it is a skill that is vastly appreciated and needed by our community. While I had expressed interest mostly in conducting research in magical theory or practicing magical law, I had also an interest in healing. These all came up in discussion during a session with my head of house (it was very similar to a career aptitude consultation) in which Professor McGonagall explained that while it was good to be broad, my talents would be wasted upon magical law and drained in thery. I disagreed with her; I am, as you know, passionate about the natural rights of magical beings and it is a dream of mine to one day protect those rights and I am, as you have said, a scientific creature, just like my father. Research is sorely need in this society, which is half-dark ages, still. As of now, however, I can do very little to influence such things, and research into magical theory requires multiple magical masters. My head of house, thus, suggested that I survey healing in the next two years of schooling, as it encompasses multiple magical disciplines. I've signed up for the courses needed for all, of course, but had not expected to delving so deeply into the subject so soon._

 _Imagine my surprise when my head of house approached me with an opportunity to actually study healing (sort of)! Professor McGonagall had spoken personally to the school nurse that I would make an excellent candidate as a pseudo-apprentice. While healing studies are typically only begun after NEWT exams, Madam Pomfrey, the school's matron (the magical equivalent of a nurse practitioner, although in the wizarding world this is synonymous with the term mediwitch), suggested the arrangement that I have now agreed to. She has permitted me to shadow her, as well as assist with minor healing procedures, diagnostics, and prognosis. So far, it's all been very exciting: lots of sampling of potions and some minor discussions about trauma assessment and rare magical illnesses such as Magical Burning. There are no students to heal, and thus she can focus on my pre-training, as I would have to do this anyway proceeding my acceptance into a program._

 _Not only will I be surveying healing, but I will be able to research (truly, a dream come true) and tutor beneath the potions master. This is exciting, but it is alo going to be difficult for me, as you know Potions is an area of weakness in my studies. While, admittedly, I am poorer at Defense, my lowest marks have always been received in brewing. Obviously, this fact is due to the strange inability for teachers to hold the Defense position and the penchant that they are incompetent teachers as well as easy graders, and should not reflect negatively upon Professor Snape's strict teaching style, as he grades fairly in my opinion. I_ am _rather untalented with my hands, as you remember I cannot draw or play music even though Mémé forced all those instruments into my hands whenever we would visit, and the potions master does not care for my verbose essays. I have always had trouble just getting to the point, after all... it is not different now than it was in primary school._

 _And thus, back to the point, now that I've been reminded of my fault. Potions are, of course, integral to healing (many are medicines and some are poisons, which, of course, a healer must be able to diagnose and prescribe the antitode to). The subject must be learned properly and thoroughly if I am ever to truly consider the medical field. Professor Snape has graciously agreed to supplement my previous failures with private tutoring. I doubt I will have time at all to visit considering his penchant for requiring excellence in his students (especially since he is forfeiting his own holiday to assist in my endeavor), but I do so hope there will be at least one opportunity where I can see you both._

 _Once again, while I know you aren't worried about my transgression, I am sorry for having wasted your time with my forgetfulness. I know you would have much rather been enjoying your free day doing something more productive than explaining Laughing Gas to Mr. Weasley, or at the very least would rather be bothered with my company as I would be with yours. Perhaps, one day, we can entertain Mr. Weasley together with a tour of the office—In return, I'm sure he would transfigure you a pristine set of napkin stationary, although it might not hold forever. Unfortunately, transfiguration is not always permanent and the texture of the letter you had passed on to me has begun to latch, and truly is now a napkin-parchment._

 _To be honest, magic is still all rather fascinating to me, as well. I don't think I will ever become completely used to it. Thank Merlin for men like Mr. Weasley, who find no fault at all in such a notion._

 _Love,_

 _Hermione_

* * *

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I told you that I'm fine and I will speak no more of my health to you, as it is no concern of anyone's._

 _Since you've insisted, however, I_ have _been researching under Professor Snape—don't make that face that I know you are making! He's a_ professor, _Harry_ _Potter_. _You figured out years ago that I was mad, after all, so it shouldn't be a surprise that I am actually enjoying learning from him. While you are the bravest person I have ever met, I am not as convinced that he isn't at least, somewhat, noble. He is an Order member, Harry, and Dumbledore trusts him. I trust him, too… doesn't that mean something to you? I'm not going to say you should always listen to me, but it does hurt me knowing that my opinion isn't valued by my best friend._

 _I have decided to remain at Hogwarts for the entirety summer so it's unlikely that you will see me until term begins, unless I can escape to Diagon Alley for an afternoon. This is not because of an illness, but due to the fact that Madam Pomfrey has offered to train me in minor healing. This includes Potions work, so yes, I will have to spend more time tutoring under Professor Snape. This tutoring might even extend into next year (stop making that face, Harry James!)_

 _It's a worthy sacrifice to make as it will benefit not only me, but also our friends, classmates, and the Order. After all, one of three of us needs to learn how to heal the others, considering how outlandishly "accident-prone" we each are (it's not going to be Ron—Charms are_ not _his best suit) and you hardly have the time considering that you said Dumbledore has plans for you next term. I hope he's going to teach you Occlumency, at the very least._

 _I know that the future is uncertain, but we've become quite entangled in the war recently… the least I can do is learn something useful. I will learn as much as I can to protect you and Ron, Harry. I owe you that for the friendship you have given me._

 _Sorry for being maudlin,_

 _Hermione_

 _P.S. – Please don't mention the OWLs! I didn't get to check my answers with all of the commotion and now I'm worried that I've flunked History of Magic, as well. Oh, now I won't be able to stop thinking about it. Circe help us._

* * *

It had been two days since her first visit with Professor Snape and he had not yet summoned her. Hermione had not relented from quieting her mind since the night she had first had a taste of it until she felt comfortable doing so on a whim. Throughout the forty-eight hours that had passed, she had alternated between reading the books he had given her, practicing "quiet-time", and writing and reading various letters.

It was mid-morning, however, and she was enjoying some _light reading_ for her own enjoyment. Well, slightly her own enjoyment—it was Advanced Magical Theory: Mastery edition, which she had picked up from the library after finishing the precious few that Professor Snape had graced her with.

"Miss Granger."

Hermione merely grunted in response to the nurse's greeting. Her eyes shifted over the page as far as they could to appear attentive; considering her nose was half a centimeter away, it was difficult for her to keep both the passage and the nurse in her line of sight. When she continued to keep her eyes directed towards the page and only narrowly turned her chin in the general direction of her caretaker, the nurse very impatiently cleared her throat…

Hermione answered without truly registering that she had even spoken aloud, "Yes, Madam Pomfrey?"

Her eyes remained on the page.

"Miss Granger, you have a _visitor_."

The young witch waved her hand dismissively to send them away. She did not immediately consider the preposterousness of such a statement (honestly, a visitor?), hence, she reacted as she would for anyone who interrupted her during her favorite pass-time; with pompous indifference. She did not indulge in many things, but when she was immersed in a book she asked only that her friends leave her be until she was finished.

Ronald hadn't quite caught on yet, despite five years of friendship—and Harry only interrupted her when it was important (or at least, what he thought was important). She couldn't fault Madam Pomfrey or her mysterious visitor for not knowing about her preferences; it was out of politeness that she was not, in fact, more impolite than she typically would have been anyone else bold enough to proverbially step between her and a book.

It was only when she felt a weight pounce onto the bed beside her that she tore her gaze from the precious pages, her mouth open to protest and her eyes narrowed in distaste. It was only half a moment when she realized who or rather what had landed there beside her. By the the familiar musky smell that often followed him after prowling through abandoned corridors and the instinctual warmth that bridled within her belly when he was near, it could only be Crookshanks, her snub-faced half-kneazle familiar.

The bright orange blob of color in the corners of her vision solidified her suspicions and she gasped in delight, the book very easily forgotten to greet him with open arms.

Hermione twisted and threw both arms out from beneath the throw she had been squirreled beneath since she had awoken to grasp at the feline body with a hearty half-sob.

"I usually do not allow pets within the infirmary, but considering your eminent release, it would be quite redundant to refuse him, after all the racket he made in the corridor," the nurse mused with a slight tone of irritation in the background, "He is yours, of course, that is quite plain from your reaction."

The young witch did not chastise the nurse for her veiled contempt towards her familiar, but rather swooned towards the half-kneazle. Crookshanks was currently straining against her embrace, mewling in distaste as she swiped her fingers over the wiry hair of his neck and back.

" _Where_ have you been?"

He meowed loudly in response and squeezed out of her grip. Orange eyes glared at her warily from a slightly more golden face until she lifted her hands in defeat; he prowled in front of her until she scowled in silent promise to not bother him with fretful caresses.

Despite this, she continued to chastise him, jabbing a finger in his direction and frowning pointedly, "No doubt you've been eating your fill now that all the other cats have gone, you naughty boy."

Crookshanks seemed pleased with himself when she said that, lifting his paw indignantly to dab at her unwanted hand, and her eyes narrowed further.

"Here I am, wasting away in the infirmary, and you're off chasing vermin and having the time of your nine lives—how convenient for you!"

The witch crossed her arms and looked at him down the length of her nose in disappointment. He made a low hissing sound and accused her with his wise, offended orange eyes, _you haven't been there to feed me, now have you? Was I supposed to laze around beside you all day?_

Hermione huffed, "It wasn't my fault I nearly died and have been stuck here for days." The nurse muttered loudly, but the young witch ignored her, "You knew exactly where to find me, didn't you? By all means, don't feign disappointment on my account, sir—I've been perfectly fine without you."

Crookshanks merely stared at her as if to say _of course I knew where you were, I will not apologize for being pleased with this arrangement, and if you truly needed me, I would have been there,_ and then he cocked his head as if he were contemplating whether or not she was truly displeased with him. Eventually, when she did not break his gaze, her face softened and he finally relented. The warm, animal body brushed his towards her forcefully, swiping his fur across her arms, as if willing her strength she hadn't known she was lacking.

Although they had been apart for many days, he promptly padded around her and settled near the head of the bed like he owned it in the first place. He circled the emerald throw, sniffing it indignantly, until at last he claimed it as his.

Once he was completely settled, Hermione glanced with uncertainty at the mediwitch who remained leery of his presence. She was pursed of lip and crossed of arm. Although pouting was beneath Hermione, something in the young Gryffindor's face must have hinted at her disappointment to be without the company of the cat.

The mediwitch merely waved her wand over the surrounding beds to repel them from being covered in his fur and huffed.

"I trust he will behave himself?" Madam Pomfrey asked of her patient, her eyes upon the half-kneazle rather than on his master. Crookshanks merely stared at her and then returned to licking his paw, indifferent to whether or not his presence was welcomed.

Hermione answered for him, "If he is as smart as I know he is, he will know better than to try your patience, Madam Pomfrey. I assure you, he is a perfect gentleman."

The nurse smiled at her gently, "As gentile as any cat could be, my dear…"

"It won't be much longer, will it, anyway?" Hermione asked tentatively, "We'll both be out of your hair in an hour?"

The nurse made a pensive face before answering, "We shall see after your diagnostic; it will be ineffective for another hour or so, however, so I suggest you sit tight and remain patient."

Hermione knew it was wise to be cautious, but she ached for the comfort of Gryffindor Tower—the burning fire of the Common Room and her four poster bed. The glossy windows paned with stained glass in the figures of red and yellow flowers and the painted lions of her house. The burning embers of the fireplace no matter the season and the plush armchairs that always seemed to feel softer than any other.

She missed her trunk and her bathroom—Madam Pomfrey could only summon so much for her and she refused to call on the elves to retrieve them. While the nurse was companionable, Hermione was not, by nature, a very social creature. She had no siblings and the thought of sharing a room (even if it was the size of a wing) was as comforting for as sharing a form with four girls who had less in common with her than she had with Professor Snape.

That was not to say that she did not miss her friends. It was quite the opposite. She couldn't have them for months yet… but their spirits were stronger in the Tower than the hospital wing. _Well, not by much,_ Hermione realized with a wry smile to herself. The trio spent nearly as much time in the hospital wing as they did in their own common room (hence her excuse to Harry), each taking turns visiting and being the visited.

If she did get her magic back, it wouldn't be a bad idea at all to truly shadow Madam Pomfrey. It might prove useful one day to know a bit about healing.

"There is no rush," she added towards the nurse, hoping she hadn't offended her with her haste for privacy, and wondering if perhaps it would be a good idea to remain in the wing, after all.

"Certainly not," the nurse said with a wise smile, but something in her eyes made the young witch doubtful, "Although I hope, eventually, that this will all seem like a distant memory for you, I can agree that it can be overwhelming to be monitored day in and day out, especially considering your physical wounds are tended to."

Silence settled upon them; instead of returning to her book, Hermione looked over the lingering nurse, who had paused to open the pair of curtains that were fluttering defiantly across the wing.

The young patient admitted that Pomfrey looked a bit more out of sorts than usual. She cocked her head to the side, not unlike her familiar had towards her minutes before, and noticed that the sleeves of the nurse's robes were rolled up to the elbow, as well as the fact that her face was reddened and her fingers were dirtied. The apron she wore was stained and considering the woman was the neatest Hermione had ever met, even the smallest of stains seemed out of place upon her typically pristine white and gray striped uniform.

"Potions brewing?" Hermione asked, after deducing it was the only thing that could have kept her from scourging them immediately away. Potions was a demanding art, after all.

The nurse nodded affirmative and, her eyes following the Gryffindor's, hastily cleaned her apron and set her hat, hair, and sleeves to rights, "The stores are sorely depleted, I fear, after… well, it has been even more of a tumultuous year than usual."

Hermione nodded abashedly, "That's partly my fault, I suppose."

"Oh?"

She flushed and shifted nervously, "I might have… encouraged rebellion in the students, or at least looked the other way when I knew I shouldn't have."

The older witch looked bemused, "Perhaps it was necessary for you to remain uninvolved, considering the consequences of misbehavior under that woman. No matter—it is no one's fault but that dreadful witch's, if you can ask me. I can't say I agree with your methods of disposing of the toad—"

Hermione winced… she had worried that the event would be too traumatizing for Umbridge. Centaurs were not known for their… restraint, when it came to intruders upon their land. Remembering Harry's ruined hand and her own, however, the vengeance didn't seem sweet enough it was enough to send her shoving all thoughts of the woman away.

"—but I do agree that whatever was needed to keep her from ever setting foot in my wing again was worth it. I know the rest of the staff would agree."

She tried not to think about what could have happened to Umbridge—at the hand of centaur or giant. It seemed necessary at the time, but had the witch died, would she feel the same? She certainly had been damaged—centaurs were not known for their gentleness, especially where it concerned mouthy, female humans…

 _That's a question better left unanswered, Hermione Jean, if you want your conscience to remain unscarred._

Perhaps it was too late, as her stomached churned uneasily at the thought.

"Wouldn't Professor Snape typically make the medical potions for Hogwarts?" Hermione asked, wanting to change the subject immensely.

The nurse averted her eyes and stiffened, "I have not had the chance to speak privately to Severus about it."

Hermione was quiet then—should she tell the nurse what she had seen of Him? Should she divulge that she did not buy into the façade he had woven, as she was beginning to think the nurse did not either?

 _Not yet,_ a small voice urged. Not before she could hide any conversation she might have with the nurse about him in the depths of her mind. If he knew she was speaking about him, he would be displeased, as he was a considerably private person, as the nurse had noted.

She glanced towards the door hesitantly. He had made it a habit for her to, whenever her thoughts strayed to him, check for his presence.

"I'm certain he would happily brew them," Hermione noted when she was satisfied he would not storm into the wing from the empty corner or through the closed door that led to the second floor corridor, "But perhaps… perhaps some time soon, I could help you brew instead, if he finds himself overwhelmed."

The nurse seemed to consider it for a long moment.

Hermione interjected, "If, of course, Professor Snape gives his leave for me to do so. Perhaps it will make his life easier… and yours, too, of course; if there were three of us contributing to the school's deficient stock, perhaps we would not run out so quickly."

"There's quite a few things that man could do to make his and my life easier, if only he'd listen to me," she seemed ruffled, and then politely concluded, "Let us leave it up to the potions master, lest he claim we are conspiring against him."

Hermione grinned at the nurse, who cracked a smile in return.

"Well, I've left some burn pastes in stasis and I will be quite cross if they've gone bad considering all the work I've put into them," the nurse wiped her forehead with her sleeve, and decided to move on from their shared concern through some good old fashioned hard work, "You will shout if you need me."

It was a command, not a question. In but a handful of moments, she was the stern nurse once more, all prim shoulders and a strict expression. She nodded to Hermione, glared at Crooks who returned the look with an equally poisonous stare, then turned on her heel and headed to the opposite end of the wing.

When the nurse was gone completely, Crookshanks met her eye as if to scorn her.

She quirked a brow at him, "What?"

He flicked his tail as if to say _silly humans_.

She huffed, "I can't concentrate if you're glaring at me. Go on, turn 'round."

His orange eyes glinted towards her, but then he returned to preening his fur lazily and basking in the sunlight.

After a time, she snapped the book beneath her shut and sat up. Crookshanks could be heard purring in the background. As she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, she could feel her heartbeat thrum in tune with each feline vibration, and concentrated on dulling both the sensation of breathing and all the other corporeal reminders of her existence, until the nurse would relay her verdict to release her.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the dungeons, Severus' pinched his nose in frustration and stood from where he had perched over his desk for the past hour, pondering drowning his hunger with a nap instead of with nutrients. The thought of closing his eyes was both equally disconcerting and desirable, but his legs groaned in protest when he shifted his hips. They were badly in need of stretching, as were the rest of the muscles in his aging body. Thus, he left his office without a second thought for the cool, silky sheets and the shimmering reflected light of the Black lake of his private rooms.

When was the last time he had gone farther than the loo? He'd managed a shower (necessary for him, considering the self-prescribed treatments he applied religiously to his Cursed flesh in the soaps he brewed himself) in the past twenty-four hours, but had done little else except for research, Occlude, and (briefly) nod off at his desk. Not only was time-frame of his invitation with the dark lord fast approaching, but he was naturally on edge considering the castle's lack of headmaster for the past two days.

Although there was no one to pry within, he knew better than to underestimate the nosiness of a Gryffindor, let alone the one Gryffindor who remained at Hogwarts _,_ and so he warded his office, and winced when he felt them stitch together more forcefully than normal. The pressure of magic pounded at his cranium like an anvil, leading him to pause and massage it before beginning his trek to scavenge for a meal.

With both Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress gone, and no other Head to share in the responsibility of the castle, Severus was burdened fivefold with Hogwarts' ancient magic, from whose cornerstone he called upon to protect his office (so as to not spare his own magic to do so). As the bearer of the Sigil of Slytherin (a heavy silver ring emblazoned with the characteristic serpent) and thus protector of the castle and the students who studied there, he was tethered to the castle's structural enchantments by the crudely crafted jewelry. Typically, it never weighed very heavily on his conscious mind, but today and the past few days in generally, the ring felt like it weighed stones rather than mere fractions of ounces.

Although he wasn't exactly certain how, due to the Founder's Magic Severus was aware that there were a handful of people (himself, Argus, Poppy, Miss Granger), a variety of creatures (elves and owls and others), and several spirits (and one obnoxious poltergeist) occupying the halls, that the castle was a shifting spirit (staircases revolving, portraits changing frames, etc), and that no fires burned in any of the Common Room hearths (signaling the absence of its students), except for Gryffindor Tower's. The castle was mostly throbbing near the Great Hall—or the kitchens, it wasn't exactly a precise science—which meant the house elves were busying themselves with lunch, despite having little to no one to serve.

It was more difficult to admit, but the castle also simply felt strange without Albus, who would typically force Severus to dine with him during a summer afternoon such as this, when Severus would have forgotten to eat. Sometimes, Severus felt he did not belong at Hogwarts without the headmaster, who although they disagreed, had been the one person to, at the very least, provide him the benefit of the doubt (save Minerva). The headmaster was, after all, the only one who justified his position, despite his dark past and present, and was fully aware of his true loyalties. After all was said and done, if the headmaster were not there, would anyone else vouch for his honor? The castle might have, having known him well enough to trust him with the Sigil in the first place, but it was not a person whose testimony could spare him the heartaches of Azkaban (hypothetically speaking, considering he had no hope that he would survive the war at all).

He scowled at the thought of a trial (he had been spared one previously, but did not think he would be again considering the depth of his involvement in the affairs of the more recent war)… the staff would be more than willing to let him burn for his being unwilling to coddle the brats or his refusal to stroke his colleague's enormous egos. The students would relight the flame until he was nothing but a smoking crisp… and he knew from surveying their minds that he was at the top of several student's lists of "most hated" creatures on earth.

 _Perhaps not all the students would,_ he bemoaned. Draco would at least be disappointed. And… well, Miss Granger was always willing to put herself in danger for some cause or another. When he died, he had no doubt she would defend him even if it meant her own ostracism… out of "repayment" for his assistance.

 _Stupid girl_ , he thought. She would be better off letting him succumb to notoriety as the Death Eater spy than waste away trying to use her pitiful dependency upon him as an example of his courageous nature.

His actions were not just charitable, but strategic as well. The Order needed Potter, Potter needed Granger, and thus, Miss Granger needed to be trained to protect herself without magic. If—when she was able to retrieve it, she would be all the better for having done so. Teaching her served Potter, and by proxy, the Order, and further on, himself… if she were protected, then so were his secrets (and Potter's life), and that was the true goal of any Master, was it not?

 _Unless it truly was hopeless to even try_ , he was reminded. His mother was an example of what lack of magic did to a witch. Hermione Granger would no doubt suffer the same fate. It was equally as unlikely that she would _revive_ her magic as it was that he would one day be elected Minister for Magic.

 _And I could care less whichever way,_ he growled to himself, _the war will be won without her. The key is bloody Potter, not insufferable Granger._

 _Lie to yourself any further, Severus,_ a voice chastised, _and you might turn into the Old Goat himself._

A derisive snort was all that followed—hell would freeze over before he followed in the footsteps of Albus Dumbledore.

Potter would fail without her. It was his job to ensure that the boy succeeded, hence he would help her. Dumbledore had come to that conclusion, as well, or he would not have asked this of him. At least, Severus did not think he would have. The girl, after all, would hardly be a priority to the headmaster if she did not in some way contribute to whatever grand scheme he had cooked up in his barmy head.

He paused at the foot of the entrance hall staircase, his ears pricked for noise—there were voices in the Great Hall. When he swirled within, his hand half-poised for his wand, he found that the two witches of the castle were partaking in their own meal at the Head Table. Their presence had been masked by the energy of the kitchens, located directly beneath them.

His nerves were instantly eased, but he did not dare let his posture slacken and steeled them both with a glare.

Miss Granger held his eyes for a moment, before looking down at her plate. The nurse, however, flushed for a moment, floundering for a greeting, before she decided against one and looked guiltily down at her food.

She had not forgotten what she had seen, after all, he realized, and scowled to himself to realize that there was still that to deal with. She would not avoid him forever—perhaps not even for a handful of minutes. Once Madam Pomfrey sniffed out an injury, she would poke at it until he relented it to be healed.

 _Too bad for her,_ he noted, _that I have no plans to heal it._

As if she had sensed his malicious thoughts, she met his eyes defiantly once more, daring him to leave the Great Hall like a coward. Miss Granger's honey gaze followed her gray-green, until they were both nodding at him politely when he swept forward. He had not donned his teaching robes—he wasn't, after all, teaching, was he?—and thus the movement was not as dramatic as it would have been. The frock coat remained, a constant comfort to him, which also lent his strict demeanor the demure poise that he purposefully commanded.

"Severus," the nurse greeted.

"Madam," he sneered, and then sent his gaze sidelong to the girl, who was deathly quiet, despite appearing fairly well. Her skin, at the least, wasn't as pallid and she was seemingly in good spirits when he had entered.

"Miss Granger," he added as a half-thought.

The girl automatically responded, "How are you, Professor?"

Severus scowled and ascended the dais—he had learned long ago how to eat quickly, especially when Minerva was in a mood, and managed a sour answer, " _Fantastic_."

The girl made a frown, but it was not reserved for him. She appeared to be contemplating something instead of looking at him, however.

The nurse narrowed her eyes at him, looking him over for injuries.

 _Gods,_ he groaned inwardly, resisting the urge to press the bridge of his nose as he sat forcefully in a seat a good distance away from the two witches. He tapped his knife against the empty plate in front of him, and it promptly filled with his typical afternoon meal.

The migraine that was brewing there had not been relieved by potion, but it was slightly eased as soon as he took a hearty bite. His back had been enflamed since Bellatrix's careful treatment of it and today of all days it was burning true, drawing strength from the migraine, his lack of sleep. Rather than being dulled by the pain in his head, his back seemed to be vibrating with the same energy of the castle, which in turn was feeding off of his anxiety.

It was a vicious cycle and if only he could escape it… but alas, Albus had entrusted the castle to him, as well as the chit's life.

The witches, thankfully, ignored his biting remarks, and instead waited patiently for their own meal to appear, chattering amongst themselves and ignoring him.

"I merely want the natural rights of intelligent magical creatures to be recognized," Hermione began to object to no one in particular—certainly not him, he thought, sending a sidelong glare in her direction. She wasn't cheeky enough, not like Potter, to speak to him so indirectly; her attention was spared for the nurse only, as if she had decided to ignore his presence entirely. Apparently, she returned to the conversation she had been participating in recently.

A twinge of something he did not recognize resounded, but he swatted it away. He preferred being ignored, anyhow. He knew how to submerge in the shadows, and it was quite comfortable there.

Casual conversation with Gryffindor brats and meddlesome nurses was rather uncomfortable, he realized. Curse it all, he was still an awkward bastard underneath it all—socially inept and unwanted. He stabbed a potato, and pretended not to be listening to them, instead conjuring a book to read as he took a swig of drink.

"Your heart is in the right place," the nurse began to say, "But I fear it is a hopeless cause. The elves enjoy what they do even if they are sometimes forced to do it."

"I'm certain not _all_ of them enjoy it, although many of them, especially at Hogwarts, do—and of course, they are treated with respect here," Hermione said, chewing her lip, "I understand now that most would choose the circumstances that they now have, but they deserve the right to make that choice. They are sentient creatures, whose rights should not be imposed upon simply because wizards feel a sense of superiority to them."

"Of course, you are right, Miss Granger," the nurse mused, then gasped in delight when an array of food appeared in front of her. Severus paused when he caught the distinct smell of vinegar, fatty oil, and fish. His mouth instantly watered as he recalled the one time Lily had treated him to the meal in their childhood…

The pang that followed had him slamming his knife and fork down. His head throbbed against his eyes and he sucked in a breath.

The nurse harrumphed slightly at his rudeness. He sneered at her, dabbed his face, and realized that Miss Granger was watching him with a peculiar expression. She was trying to control it, and although it was not effective, it was a step up from letting him see the pity play out on her face as it typically did.

 _Practice makes perfect, witchling_ , he vowed towards her inwardly.

"Severus—" The nurse began.

He shot her a dark look and gritted his teeth, "I have said nothing."

"I merely meant to inquire if you are well," the nurse mooned, "It is typical for those dining at the same table to carry conversations with one another, and we have not seen you show your face in days."

Severus felt his temper boil—he had to suffer their presence the entire summer, the least they could do was spare him some silence while he ate, until he could excuse himself properly.

She continued when he ignored her, "You're eating today, at least—"

"I was not aware that my eating habits were a subject of concern."

"It is my duty to—"

"To tend to the students of Hogwarts," he continued calmly, "nowhere in your contract does it state that you are legally obligated to harass staff or faculty."

The nurse made a strangled sound of frustration, "It is sheer stupidity to refuse the help of a trained professional. I am merely offering advice, Severus…"

"I assure you, Madam," he insisted with a sneer, "if your advice was desired, I would seek it. I am not an imbecile—I have provided for myself for thirty-six years without your stock in my well-being."

She was blissfully quiet then, although her face was screwed into an expression torn between guilt and pity. If there was anything Severus hated more, it was people feeling pitiful for him. He had suffered enough of that as a child, from people who had did nothing to prevent it. Just like the neighbors and the distant family members, Poppy Pomfrey had done little to nothing to spare him when he was helpless and truly pitiful.

Now, he was strong and capable and he would have none of it from anyone.

He was opening his mouth to say something, when the girl, Miss Granger, abruptly changed the subject, "I've been cleared for Gryffindor Tower, Professor Snape."

His eyes snapped to hers, glowering for having interrupted him, "Congratulations, Miss Granger… you'll now have to trek seven flights of stairs to the dungeons instead of two."

She nodded, "I do it throughout the year, anyway. I enjoy the exercise… but the point I was going to make, sir, was that I had hoped to ask your permission to do something, now that my physical injuries are, at this point, mended."

He waited for her continue, choosing to spare the time to tear into his steak (politely, with his mouth closed, but viciously nonetheless).

"Well, I was reading the books you gave me," she began, lifting her hand as if to motion the opening of a book, as if it were necessary to convey her point, "And Professor Dumbledore returned a letter to me from my parents explaining to them that I was training under you and Madam Pomfrey—"

"Typical," the potions master muttered around the meat.

Miss Granger continued without a beat, "—and I was thinking, it might not be a bad idea."

"Oh, no, it might not," he said dryly, "if you were in control of your magic, which you are not."

She sucked in a breath, then expelled it—commanding control of her emotions, which was more than he expected out of Potter, but less than he expected of a student of his own house, "Sir, that is very true; however, if I cannot assist in healing charms, the least I can do is help Madam Pomfrey brew potions. It might be helpful with… with the war to come, but also... might it help my affliction?"

Severus quirked a skeptical brow at her.

She motioned towards the invisible book she had drawn open again, "The text, Advanced Magical Theory, it had very little to say about my... condition, but it did say that magic is stronger when it is well-practiced. If I am to ever grow stronger, I must not grow idle in practice. Potions brewing may be the perfect outlet, because..."

She trailed off, made a flushing expression... she had caught herself, he realized, in a habit she had not broken since all the time he had known her. Rather than continue to be mollified, she straightened, poised, in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable, as not only did her posture remind him of his mother, but it made him see her as more of a woman than a child.

Her amber eyes were dark and slightly downcast, looking more at his neck than his eyes, "Well, you would understand why. You are a Master in the content."

"Quite," he offered in reply. She returned her eyes to his and he held them only briefly, before choosing to contemplate the wall behind her bushy head.

As the potions master reflected upon the matter, his sour mood slightly lightened, as it often did when his brain was working. All of his thoughts wrapped around the possibilities that Miss Granger's request could lead to.

The witch had a logical argument, although it could undoubtedly be potentially be dangerous for her. She would need to, at the very least, be able to visualize her magic first.

While potions was not necessarily the same as transfiguration or charms, it did require magic to concoct—not much, but enough that it could be difficult for her, and enough that it could also serve as the perfect outlet of therapy to lead her to command her power completely once more.

"Just because your physical injuries are completely healed, Miss Granger," the potions master began, as gently as he was able, which still seemed particularly coarse, "it does not mean you are ready for even the slightest expulsion of magic. Any— _any_ magic you use could mean life or death, do you understand?"

The witch looked pensive, then slightly mollified once more. Her expression was deflated, as if she knew he would refuse her.

How lucky for her that his patience was not completely worn through.

He insisted towards her, his hands cutting a curving wave in the air, "When you can visualize your magic, you may assist in potions brewing for the school."

The girl snapped up, her honey eyes to his, "Truly?"

He sneered, "Perhaps I should correct myself: _if_ you can visualize your magic, you may assist. _If_ being dependent on how well you have been practicing your Occlumency."

The nurse spared him a strange look, watching him very closely in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable. Having suffered their presence enough, he stood from the table, but not before Vanishing the remainder of his food away, to spare the elf who had provided it from feeling dishonored.

"You will have the chance to prove yourself this afternoon, Miss Granger. If you do not meet my expectations, there will be consequences."

He was turned slightly away from her, but he could still see her clearly from the way his face was tilted. Her eyes were on him so intensely, he was forced to look directly into them. The experienced Legilimens refrained from plucking at her stray thoughts, but it only took a keen eye to notice the glint of steel that spoke of calm, honed determination. Her lips, rosy-red yet thinner than was typically beautiful, were pressed firmly together and her chin jutted out stubbornly in that way that it did when she was thinking very hard about something.

He knew she would, at the very least, aim to impress. While he had no doubt she would not surprise him (she was ill-equipped for magic, after all,) he would not be fooled into thinking she would not meet his expectations in due time.

Time would tell whether she would surpass them.

* * *

"Perhaps you should stay a few more days… at least until the headmaster himself can decide. Severus did have a point. With all these stairs... you'll exhaust yourself."

"Am I a hazard to myself?" The girl inquired.

"Well, no…"

She gestured towards her chest, drawing a line over the scar that was obscured by the thick jumper she wore, "Is my torso completely curse free?"

"Yes."

"Am I in pain?"

The nurse lifted a brow.

Hermione shook her head in response—she wasn't, exactly, in pain. She was freezing cold, but that could not be helped.

"Then you don't have to suffer my clutter, chatter, and cat any further," Hermione said with a smile, "Don't worry, Madam Pomfrey, I will, of course, have to visit often, and I have this—" she lifted the spare Protean coin; the other had been given to the nurse. If she needed assistance, she would send her a message with it and the nurse would send for Professor Snape, "—for emergencies."

And there was always the Floo, of course.

"That you will and do, dear."

The young witch looked towards her familiar, who was waiting impatiently at the entrance of the wing, then back to the nurse. She flung her arms around her.

The nurse made a surprised face, then nodded and relented into the embrace, "All things will pass."

They would, eventually, or so Hermione could hope. For now, she was glad to be returning to her familiar four poster bed. The Common Room was quite empty when she arrived, but she found she didn't mind it so badly. There was no one to fault her for spreading out her books on the floor as she delved into the world of Magical Theory, chewing nervously at her lip until she had to trek back towards the dungeons.

* * *

"May I enter, sir?"

"Yes, Miss Granger," he motioned for her to sit. The lights of several were glittering around him, set haphazardly around the books and papers of his desk, each flicker making him appear gaunter than usual. She noticed that he looked very tired… almost hauntingly so, by the darkness and radius of the half-moon circles beneath his eyes. What was it that was keeping him from sleep? She, herself, had been dealing with fitful sleep. The cold was creeping in around her exponentially throughout the day, but it typically peaked during the night. It would be no different in the tower. But she had Crookshanks and that throw this wizard had Conjured for her... somehow, it remained enchanted, despite having been given to her days before.

She guiltily kept it and indulged in its warmth every night. She wondered if Professor Snape had another, or if he missed it. The thought made her blush. He had much more to worry about than chills in the night that kept him awake...

 _He's certainly not stressed merely over your predicament_ , she admitted abashedly. Although he had resolved himself to treat her, he had far more pressing responsibilities… like spying for the Order. Had he visited Voldemort recently?

… had he killed anyone... recently?

Ever?

"I trust you have been practicing your inflection?"

She hesitated, blinking away the question she would never ask… She chewed her lip, contemplating. Although she believed she was ready to prove herself, she could never quite shake the feeling that she could not and would not ever meet his expectations, let alone impress him.

"Miss Granger," he drawled, drawing her eyes to his; they were black as night, so deep and yet so flat at the same time, as if merely an illusion she would never decipher, "You have read the books?"

She nodded determinedly.

"And you have quieted your mind?"

She nodded, slightly less so.

"Then show me."

She made a grimacing face, but nodded. Her face grew lax, but her shoulders stiffened determinedly. The world began to melt away from her: the sound from her ears, the breath through her nose, the rubbing of fabric against her skin and the firmness of wood beneath her thighs. Her sense of being became lax, unbidden, and yet true all the same. It was as if she had melted into the ground and now existed somewhere in between her mind and the real world.

"Very well," his voice interrupted, drawing her slightly towards the corporeal plane, "But you must look deeper. You've skimmed the surface… but now you must break through it. From silence, find truth."

"But—" she heard herself interrupted.

"Silence. Do as I say."

She obeyed, drifting back towards the haven of nothingness she had grown rather fond of. Although he did not touch her, she felt a warmth radiating from him, a presence, preventing her from slipping completely beyond. How was it that his presence, and not Madam Pomfrey's, or Crooks' could affect her in such a way?

 _Break the surface of what?_ An incredulous voice asked, batting at such incredulous notions. It was merely the fact that his presence was more... intimidating than the nurse or her familiar's. Despite its warmth, his was a presence her body instinctively responded to, as he had trained all of his students to be wary whenever he was near.

Or so she figured before she let the topic recede away from her.

She tensed, if only so that she could then relax, aiming to remain concentrated on the task at hand. Without her realizing, her shoulders had smoothed rather than rounded and her breathing became shallow. She couldn't begin to exactly imitate the confidence he displayed, but she could mock it enough to keep her fear at bay. As if she could match his expression, she jutted her jaw forward. Her brow furrowed slightly (attempting the best Snape "scowl" she could manage), until she had shed all other thoughts from her head except for the resonating silence.

Hermione drifted for a moment, drawn into a state of being and not being, of existence and nothing, focusing on practicing the steadfast nature of her professor and wiping her own nature from her mind. In that same instant, her world began to feel heavy and dark, weighed down by an unseen, unheard pressure. The young witch tensed, as she had momentarily been aware of her own body, her own soul once more. Although she had felt and seen worse, the helplessness she felt when dragged beneath the surface of the Black Lake (albeit in dream only and not reality) was enough to leave her quite unable to face what waited within.

 _Just listen. Listen for the song._

But how could she find it, when she could not first accept the void? It was cold and unfeeling and it made her think of the pitch black, lapping water of her dreams… The height of it was rising with every second, lapping up over her trainers. Her eyes remained squeezed shut rather than dare look towards the floor beneath her and break her inflection…

By Professor Snape's instruction, it was the depths of her mind she was to dissect if she wanted to gauge her own magic… if she wanted to depend on herself rather than upon him, she would have to face the blackness… the nothingness.

 _For once the mind was emptied, it could once again be filled._

While the thought of relying upon the potions master wasn't discomforting, per say, she knew to do so would be foolish and unnecessary. She was prideful enough—and curious as ever—to know what and how her magic, what was left, was functioning. Enough to consider delving into the depths without abandon, even though it made her tremble with fear to look upon it.

How the song would help, she was uncertain. She had been unable to find any books on the subject in the library. He said it would help, so she pricked her ears… but all she could hear was a thrumming nothing... an eerie, buzzing nothing. She shivered in response, finding herself quite unnerved when once the nothingness had been comforting.

It was a bit like finding the source of her soul, and the thought might her thrum with energy. Still, the water at her feet was ever dark and daunting, teasing up over her toes, reminding her of the emptiness that had begun to plague her, hip to shoulder and deep within.

Was her body freezing as her mind was? She could only imagine it was… nothing had ever felt as chilling as this did.

The fear was the product of a nightmare, only, she assured herself, quite as unreal as any other dream, fantastical or mundane. But its manifestation—the black pool—was enough to send shivers down her spine all the way to her toes. At its core, the fear was facing her emptiness… the emptiness of her magic, her soul. If her mind were to follow in the steps of her magic… well, it was not exactly a death, but something far worse in her opinion.

But it was an obstacle she needed to face. A burden she needed to accept. If she could not, then she did not deserve to face what waited beneath the surface.

This… void was a part of her—it was no different than the weight of her hands, the breath in her lungs, the sound in her ears. The blackness was simply… an aspect. A trait. It was always with her; she merely had never looked for it before.

 _Gauge your own power, how it fluctuates—determine if it is once again escaping you._

Her body was somehow both rapt and calm, loose and yet prepared to absorb any sound from without, any change in temperature or light would affect her… the darkness was beckoning, asking her mind to follow her body, to remove herself from the world that threatened to keep her ignorant and vulnerable.

She took a deep, inward breath, and then slipped into the depths. The water accepted her gracefully, letting her drift downward until it had completely engulfed her.

She could feel the chill over every inch of her skin when the blackness surged through the threshold, the sting of her body being stretched taut by tiny hooks. Then, it was around her and rising upwards still, enveloping her fully in a sheet of slimy, inky indifference, a pluming void determined to swallow her whole.

Her body was reacting instinctively, with violence, jerking against the pressure like a fish caught in a tangled net. Her gut screeched for her to keep fighting, to reject the darkness. If she could escape it, then she could return once more to the world that was real and corporeal and sensible, the world that she had known and understood.

But she knew if she turned back now, she would never again be able to truly succeed, and so she un-clenched her hands and relented, letting it consume her, until it had pierced her very bones. For the first time in her life, she was nothing at all, completely void of thought and feeling.

 _Free._


	9. The Summons

**A/N:** I wrote this chapter in less than a day—LESS THAN A DAY! That hasn't happened in a while. Anyway, it's coming along nicely once more. Hopefully I'll keep it up. By the way, I included the "Previously" because I noticed while re-reading that I failed to add a point to Hermione's argument-potions brewing is mild magic (only requires a wave of a wand at the end) and would be good, safe practice for her in the mean time! I've fixed it there and here. Enjoy the chapter.

* * *

Chapter Nine  
The Summons

* * *

 **Previously**

 _She sucked in a breath, then expelled it—commanding control of her emotions, which was more than he expected out of Potter, but less than he expected of a student of his own house, "Sir, that is very true; however, if I cannot assist in healing charms, the least I can do is help Madam Pomfrey brew potions. It might be helpful with… with the war to come, but also... might it help my affliction?"_

 _Severus quirked a skeptical brow at her._

 _She motioned towards the invisible book she had drawn open again, "The text, Advanced Magical Theory: Mastery Edition, it had very little to say about my... condition, but it did say that magic is stronger when it is well-practiced. If I am to ever grow stronger, I must not grow idle in practice. Potions brewing may be the perfect outlet, because..."_

 _She trailed off, made a flushing expression... she had caught herself, he realized, in a habit she had not broken since all the time he had known her. Rather than continue to be mollified, she straightened, poised, in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable, as not only did her posture remind him of his mother, but it made him see her as more of a woman than a child._

 _Her amber eyes were dark and slightly downcast, looking more at his neck than his eyes, "Well, you would understand why. You are a Master in the content."_

* * *

A half an hour after she had arrived, Severus was observing the girl very carefully—both skeptical that she could perform the task without exhausting herself and surprised that she had improved in the mere days since her first lackluster experience with Occlumency.

For the time being, she was deeply relaxed; her eyes were closed and her shoulders were slumped languidly into the back of the stiff armchair in which she sat. Her head was slightly turned so that part of her face was pillowed in a puff of her untamable hair—hair which, he noticed, was wilder than ever, free from any braid or tail and instead left spiraling around her head in loosened, frayed curls. Her thin, but feminine mouth, glossy with saliva, was parted ever so slightly, revealing just a hint of her slightly large front teeth and bubblegum pink tongue. For all intents and purposes, she appeared very intensely at peace and quite oblivious to his presence.

Another might have confused her for having dozed off, but he recognized the absolute stillness and undeniable serenity as products of practiced inflection—no other plane of existence, save perhaps death, could instill such an expression upon another's face save Occlumency in some shape or form. The dazed, relaxed slumber was typical of a person looking inward, rather than the steely resolve he knew took place whenever a novice was building their defenses.

Although he had never witnessed it upon his own face, he knew from watching his own teachers (in particular, Albus…who had honed Severus' skills far beyond any mentor who had trained him in Norway) that this slack, sleep-like trance signaled a person's acceptance of nothingness, the first goal of inflection. It was a milestone, he knew, that would lead her closer to understanding herself, and thus her magic. Eventually, she would delve deep enough to experience it in some shape or form—each individual was different, after all. While his magic was an intense ball of light and sound, hers might take the shape of an animal, or a person… or some fantastical combination of the aforementioned.

But for now, Miss Granger was enjoying the bliss of the Divide—a sacred place that hovered between the Mind and the Body. Severus himself had often retreated there, once upon a time, when his mind was too full and his body was too loud; but any practicing Occlumens would know that it was not welcoming to a corporeal body for very long. Madness or death often followed those who could not accept such a fact, hence the art's difficulty and modern decrease in practice.

The brainy Gryffindor would have read the necessary texts (as he had asked her to) and would no doubt be aware that such peace was temporary, even if she did not recognize it as what it truly was at first. If she could not escape it, then he would be there to snatch her from it. As tempting as it was to remain, however, he knew Miss Granger well enough to know that she would move on from it in due time.

At least, the burdened potions master hoped that he knew her well enough to assume she would, considering she had not experienced too much tragedy in her life that he was aware of. He was not as blessed as Miss Granger with a new, shiny, unburdened mind and resisting the void was notably more difficult for him than he expected it would be for her. Hence, as a rule, he only sought it when he was at his darkest—like the night when not one, but three marauders had escaped the vengeance he had sought for their parts in Lily's death… when Cedric Diggory had died and his mark burned hotter and longer than it ever had he had escaped to the void both before and after he had been forced to the knee before the newly reborn dark lord. And most recently, when Potter had breached some of his most private thoughts, he had fled to its cool embrace as long as possible before his guilt drove him back to reality once more…

His back tingled in response, flaring slightly in anticipation, and thus he returned to the present, shifting uncomfortably. Although he turned away from her, he kept his eyes across the desk upon Miss Granger. She remained still as a mouse: her breathing was even, her shoulders and chest raising only slightly in regular intervals. Her skin was half-glowing from the light of the candles that flickered, casting shadows that danced over her freckled nose and stubborn chin. The lashes that fell upon her cheeks were slightly golden, but dark enough that the length was noticeable. Her dark brows angled over the delicate sculpt of her eyes, neat and smooth despite the wiry nature of the hair on her head.

As expected, it hadn't taken her long at all to break through the surface. His mind was closed to hers considering she kept her eyelids shut, but he imagined if she opened them, that the swirling pools of honey would lead him to a blackness so pure and demanding that it would seem endless… an infinite nothing, a place of nonexistence, of peace and oblivion. Unfortunately for Miss Granger, entrance through this part of the mind was merely the first step to confronting one's inner self (or selves, rather).

Depending on how confident or wise she was, the journey could take weeks or even months. _His_ had been rather defunct and short-lived, thanks to his disciplined nature and his mother's early efforts. The same was true of those of his house… at least for the old families, many magical children were taught the basics of Occlumency (although they were hardly addressed as such) very early, perhaps even from infancy.

His own mother, of course, had provided him with the typical mental and magical training in his childhood and youth—beginning with the Prince tradition of identifying the song as early as he could speak himself, leading on with basic procedures of avoiding eye contact to protect your thoughts, keeping your emotions controlled. Eileen Snape had inflected regularly to strengthen her dwindling magic and hone her mind—but she was prone to slipping into the Divide when the beatings of her son were most brutal. Severus had not yet forgiven her for that… but she had at least provided him with a semblance of understanding of inflection and had paved the way for his future success as an Occlumens.

Once he had reached puberty, he had at least a crude defense against prying Legilimens like Albus Dumbledore, thanks to his mother's instruction and his own research. The old man had attempted it upon him after Remus Lupin had attacked him in their sixth year—and Severus had very neatly ejected him. He had no doubt Albus could have remained had he wanted, but the shock was enough to keep the fool from prying again, until he had come sobbing to him for Lily's life, that was. By then his shields were superb, but his mind had been purposefully open and honest, for the sake of pleading for the life of his estranged love and her bastard husband and ill-fated child.

Severus' mastery of Occlumency had only extended further when he studied in Norway; it was a necessity for him, considering the burning had left him in great pain and thus left his concentration often divided. It was Occlumency that allowed him the most peace of mind from the pain, especially in those first critical and miserable years of servitude to the dark lord. Once he had betrayed Lily, becoming a _true_ Master of the Mind—a Dominus Mens—had been essential to protecting her from the dark lord's schemes and Albus had helped him tame it during those months where he had been spy for the Order and Lily had been safely in hiding.

In the end, no amount of training had mattered—she had died despite it all… despite promises from both of his masters that she would be spared. But he could not be regretful of the efforts he had wasted to hone his thoughts and protect his memories—Occlumency allowed him to provide the Order with what they needed to assist in the bastard's demise and avenge her death. Occlumency protected her son, most of all, and that was enough for him to be grateful he was so talented with it.

He grimaced when Miss Granger shifted suddenly, her mouth parting further and her shoulders clenching tightly. The walls of her mind were now expanding, sending pressure in his direction, as he had been honed to detect her magic (to protect it from once again flaring as it had at the Department of Mysteries). He decreased the beacon he had cast, but only slightly—the chance that she might endure another Flare was high, so soon after the first. He would prefer not to take many chances where the remainder of her magic was concerned.

His own jaw tightened in anticipation when she jutted forward suddenly. Instinctively, he leaned backwards away from her, his hand reaching on reflex for his wand—just in case he would need to restrain her or deflect any wayward magic (or hysterically feminine emotions—far worse a weapon than any spell, in his opinion).

Although it was pointless to, he briefly wondered if he should have prepared her for what was to come, considering her condition. Having endured the painstakingly emotional process himself, Severus knew that even if he had explained it in depth, there was no true preparation for what would or could happen. Knowing the girl, she would have read about the Divide and the inner mind in the books he had provided (more than once, if this was the Hermione Granger he had taught for five years) and that was enough to keep her, at least, cautious of where she tread within the depths of her mind.

She did not relax, but the pressure ceased to build further. The tension in her body and face remained, leading him to cast a quick diagnostic of her health. Her magic was undisturbed, her body was relatively stable, although her heart-rate was heightened, her blood pressure was surprisingly less so—it was her mind that was now in control, trapping the girl within her own thoughts. For the time being, she was safe from another attack, at least of the magical nature.

He relaxed slightly, but let the swirling spells and pictographs remain hovering around her body. For good measure, he cast a circle of runes at her feet—clarity, discipline, insight, calm—and receded back away from her to allow her a semblance of privacy.

The Faces (however many aspects of herself that she commanded, as it varied from person to person) would gradually form during this phase of inflection, each revelation drawing her closer to true understanding of herself. These aspects, or facets, were the mental personifications of her personality: they were her heart, her soul (as she would describe it)—her shadow (as the Egyptians had identified it). Some of these faces would take form as her fears and her desires, some would greet her openly and kindly in the image of those she loved, while others would taunt her, tease her—torment her in the shape of monstrous illusions.

Many would be vengeful for having been subdued or indulged all her life. The darkest of her selves would attempt to tear her apart, the lightest would aim to distract her, and only if she could accept all aspects, all facets of herself, would they together be able to stitch her back together, stronger and better than ever. That was, to say, if she were worthy enough to endure them all and strong enough to command them. After all, understanding oneself was not always easy—in fact, it was more than likely never easy—but it was necessary for true mastery of Occlumency. The Faces would lead her to her master her mind if she could learn how to wield them—

Or, if she could simply listen for it properly, she could find her magic without them. That, however, did not seem a pliable option, considering attempting to do as such regularly would be difficult. Should she truly need to monitor her magic for long periods of time, true mastery of inflection was a more0effective route—full-proof, in many ways…

Grimacing at the thought of the emotional outburst he would possibly have to deal with, he grunted and turned away from her. In the same breath, however, Miss Granger had gasped and opened her eyes. He kept his fixated away from the glistening, tear-filled pools at all costs, knowing that she was vulnerable to wandering thoughts and being far from eager from wanting to pick up on them. The waves of emotions poured off of her viciously enough without eye contact, swirling down towards the ground where they were, for the most part, absorbed by the runes he had cast to capture them. He hoped that they would soothe her long enough that he could usher her away, in the direction of the nurse who would soothe her properly.

When she opened her mouth to suck in a breath, she struggled slightly—her body no doubt felt like she had just sunk into a tight, uncomfortable shell. He could remember the feeling, himself… like each limb had been stuffed into a wet glove. The taste of spit in her mouth would feel foreign, the wood against her thighs would feel cold and hard, and the clothes she wore would appear too soft or too rough, depending on the material.

All at once, she would feel the physical world once more. He prepared the waste basket, anticipating that it would not end well for her when she swayed and half-sobbed in surprise. Her body surged forward slightly—she managed, however, to catch herself, her palms bracing against the edge of his desk. The weight of her head drooped forward, casting her curls over her shoulders to hide her face. She did not take the offered waste basket, though he charmed it to capture whatever nausea she would dispel.

When she had not moved for a long moment, he tersely instructed her to breathe. There was a great, pregnant pause, before she tensed once more and in the same motion sucked in a large, laborious breath. All at once, the tension she had commanded was expelled and she slumped completely against the desk, her breath taken in against the cloth of her shirt before she turned her face slightly to breathe without obstruction.

She remained that way for a time, panting with her body curled forward and her cheek pillowed by the forearms which braced against his desk. When she finally lifted her head and turned towards him, he was surprised to see that she furiously wiped the tears she had shed away. The redness of her eyes remained evident, but the wetness was gone by the time she had drawn the sleeve of her sweater thrice over each cheek.

"That was…" she began to say, breathlessly, more of a croak than actual speech.

He braced himself for the onslaught of descriptions and or tears. She struggled to find the words, however—her mouth remained open but her tongue and lips ceased from moving. The breath she was heaving was caught in her throat as her eyes drifted upward, searching the ceiling for the words she was seeking, as if they would be written upon the mottled dungeon stone. After a given time, she seemed to give up her search and returned her gaze upon him, wide-eyed and glossy, slightly dumbfounded and certainly at a loss for words. He lifted a brow—she sucked in a breath again, then relented to merely shaking her head and taking air through her nose.

When she caught his quirked lip, she merely pursed hers in bastardized sort-of smirk.

He didn't quite know how to deal with such a lack of verbosity from Hermione Granger, or the fact that her face then broke from utter disbelief to sheer excitement. One moment she was slightly gaping, then blinking, and the next she was flashing her teeth at him in an innocent sort of joyful expression. He cleared his throat impatiently after she had graced him with it for longer than was appropriate, at least in his opinion, and the expression wavered before returning to its typical state of insufferable lip-biting and furrowed dark brows.

The witch sat up slightly in response, shoving her hair out of her face with a sweep of one forearm. She did not have much to say, however—a feat of its own, and pondered the flickering candle closest to her. The light reflected in the darkened amber of her eyes, highlighting the tender flecks of orange that were hidden near the center—how had he not seen them previously?

"Miss Granger, it is quite clear that you have progressed from where we first began. It is safe to assume, however, that you have not slipped deep enough to experience your magic."

She looked disappointed, but nodded briskly in affirmative.

He continued, "While your excitement is evident, do not be fooled by its allure. You are not to breach the Divide unless you are in my presence, do you understand?"

She looked irritated, "But how am I to—"

"The purpose of these exercises is to gauge your magic so you do not exhaust yourself—as of yet, you cannot do so _expertly_ and thus you will refrain from any attempt without my assistance. To cross the Divide without supervision could lead to death or impotence in your condition... or would you rather suffer either before listening to common sense?"

"No, professor," she murmured.

He sneered, "Then we are graciously done with Occlumency for the day."

She looked disappointed, but began to stand automatically, having assumed he was dismissing her.

He pierced her with a glare and she halted, "I have not yet dismissed you, however, Miss Granger."

She looked slightly eager—no doubt expecting another armful of books to shove her nose into or a dramatic demonstration of his prowess over her. Her bum plopped promptly into her seat and she straightened in anticipation, pondering him with her trademark expectant, yet polite expression. He smirked at her, then tapped his knuckle to the desk and waited.

Her brow was slightly more furrowed now, her demeanor faltering to reveal her puzzlement. Beyond her demeanor, he noticed that she was thinner than she had been even a week previous. Her drop in weight was perhaps due to the regiment of potions he had prescribed, a side-effect of her lack of magic, or from lack of appetite from depression. It was likely that it was a combination of the latter two that led to the third (although she would be prone to melancholy, he had not seen it present in the brief times they had spent around one another).

Lack of appetite was a bigger issue that would need to be addressed than any of the other side-effects. Her magic was depleted, dangerous in itself, but just as she had said about her lack of practice, lack of nourishment would contribute to her ailment detrimentally. Whether she was hungry or not, she would need to consume that much more nourishment, to provide her body with the energy that her magic typically provided to her. Although she had seemed hungry enough during their brief encounter in the Great Hall and whether she liked it or not, her meals would need to be outrageously frequent and voraciously plentiful.

Noting that she was likely expelling greats amount of energy (Occlumency was magic, after all, although it was a different kind of magic when it was being used for inflection), he had decided to send a request from his sigil ring to the elves.

After a time, any papers before her vanished, and in their place was left a steaming plate of food and a goblet of drink.

"Oh," she muttered, looking down her nose at it as if she had never seen anything more displeasing.

 _Definitely a lack of appetite,_ he noted, _it's been hours since her last meal... a normal girl her age would be, at the very least, eager for a snack-chocolate._

"You will eat every bite," he commanded sternly with a dark glare, frowning that the elves had not thought of providing her with a single morsel of cocoa, but being too cowardly to summon one for her himself... he couldn't have her thinking he was _that_ concerned for her.

She contemplated the plate, taking the fork reluctantly, "Professor, I appreciate your concern, but I've already—"

"Your body is imbalanced, Miss Granger. Do you wish it to slip further into disrepair?"

"No," she muttered.

"Then you will eat."

The choice of words led her to wince, but she toyed with a stabbing of chicken, "And you?"

"And I?" He inquired wryly.

"Will you eat, as well?"

He lifted a brow in derision, "I am, as of now, nourished, Miss Granger. My magic is far from depleted, unlike one foolish Gryffindor's who has not yet learned to hold her cheek despite my constant re-directon of her."

Her expression was skeptical, leading him to scowl, but she refrained from voicing her opinion. Once she had taken the first bite, he gave her leave to complete the meal at their leisure. There was little conversation—he had never understood others' need to converse when they should have been partaking in mastication and digestion. Miss Granger ate her food dutifully, but looked rather miserable while doing it. He frowned at her when she left a handful of morsels on the plate before shoving it away from her.

When he opened his mouth, she interrupted, "Please, sir—I can't eat another bite."

"If you require a potion—"

"Is that your solution for everything?" She muttered to herself, to which he frowned and sneered.

"There would be no need for me to _graciously_ provide solutions to your various problems, had you not landed yourself in such predicaments, Miss Granger," he retorted, but Vanished the food away with a flick of his wand. She glanced at him furtively, then looked down at her lap, where her fingers with clasped nervously together. When she made no move to offer him an apology or to retreat, he sneered.

"You are dismissed," he commanded.

She sent him a glare from beneath her lashes, then stood and retreated from him. When she reached the threshold, she turned on her heel in a sudden motion, "Wait!"

He gritted his teeth, glared.

She met his glare with a piercing stare. From her pocket she pulled a handful of letters. Although he sneered at them, he held out his hand for them. She did not ask him to mail them for her, but they both were aware that he was in charge of enchanting them to be impervious to any save those who they were intended for.

"Thank you, Professor," she murmured once she had reached the threshold again—and although her expression seemed dour, the words were sincere enough for him to nod politely at her back.

With a flick of his wrist, the door was sent slamming after her and her letters scattered over his lap, revealing that they were addressed to Potter, her parents, and both of the youngest Weasleys…

He flicked them into a neat stack after enchanting them each, then slunk back in his chair, rubbing at his temples with his fingertips. The dark lord would be purging his thoughts in a few hours, as he had decided that waiting for the headmaster to return would only cause him pain and frustration. For all he knew, Albus would not return until the end of summer term—and that was two months too long to leave Lord Voldemort waiting.

It was best to be done with sooner rather than later—especially knowing what he knew about Draco… that was another matter altogether that he had yet to have the time to solve.

As he dropped his hand to his lap, his eye caught the Sigil of Slytherin and he cursed the headmaster for failing to return in due time. Although Severus was rue to leave the castle, it was necessary. But he could not leave it utterly defenseless—even though there was a single student, she was apparently important enough to warrant her its protection during the summer months.

He contemplated the ring, its crude carving of the curled serpent, then stood, stuffed the parchments in his pocket, and swept out of his office. In minutes, he was standing before the kitchens, pinching the pear with a tight sneer.

The head elf received him dutifully and purposefully, without having even been summoned—waiting with a firm bow as if he had sensed Severus arrival as soon as he had made the decision to head there rather than summon the beast.

Hogwarts had employed the same elf as its leader (called the Elder) for nearly two decades. He was a wizened thing now, half-hunched with drooping ears and eyes that were heavily-lidded so that he appeared bored. Many elves thought him ugly, but he was a stern leader who instilled pride in the elves lower than him—especially those like Dobby who were far from conventional.

"Master Snape," he greeted in a low tone, his wrinkled lips making no smile or frown but merely pursing politely. He did not break his bow.

The potions sneered at him, "I require assistance from your staff."

Only then did he, the Elder, break his bow and return to his characteristic crouching, "How may the elves serve Master Snape?"

"I must depart from the castle—"

The elf look displeased, but did not abject.

Severus sneered further, "—but as you are aware, a student remains at Hogwarts—Hermione Granger, to be specific. This is cause for concern, as there will be no head to protect the castle and hence, its occupants."

Some of the elves halted and glanced over their shoulders in what he perceived as annoyance. He sympathized with them, truly—he knew what it was like to be harried by her incessant need to combat injustice.

"I will require elven magic to lend her extra protection in my stead. Who amongst you will volunteer to babysit the brat whilst I am away?" The potions master murmured.

All at once, a flurry of elves spun and pointed. A brazen few grabbed the elbows of one eccentric looking elf and pushed him forward. By his expression, he now doubt would have stepped forward himself—the combined efforts of his fellows sent him spinning towards Severus, until he halted and straightened himself and the three knit hats he wore upon his head.

"Dobby will protect Harry Potter's friend, Master Snapes." The elf answered.

He paused and glared down his nose… this had once been the personal elf of Lucius Malfoy, and no doubt he knew many secrets about the family, perhaps even Severus himself—but he was far from objective to the task he had posed, " _Miss_ _Granger_ will need to be unaware of you, elf, unless it is imperative to her safety that your presence be known. Can you manage to remain undetected?"

The elf looked hesitant, but nodded furiously, "Dobby will protects her with Dobby's life and Dobby will remain unseen—Misses will never suspect. Dobby owes Misses for all his wonderful hats-Dobby's _first_ Christmas gifts."

Severus felt his face soften slightly, understanding the weight of first Christmas gifts himself, before he nodded, "She will remain in Gryffindor Tower unless the matron or I summon her—by patronus only."

The elf nodded furiously; he would not let harm come to the girl, at least... not without first giving his life.

The potions master then pierced the lead elf with his eyes once more, "I am leaving my Sigil with the matron—it is my desire, however, that you lead the defense of Hogwarts in my stead should the inconceivable occur."

The elf looked surprised, but nodded, "Elves are honored by Master Snape's recognition and will protect the halls of Hogwarts and its residents till death."

"It will not come to that," the potions master replied, "At least not yet… but where the students are concerned, we would be wise to remain precautious."

The elf nodded regally—as regally as possible being as old and withered as he was.

"I will return when I am able," he offered out of politeness.

"Master Snape," the lead elf bowed, and the rest followed.

When Severus swept out, he felt a pair of padded feet trailing behind him. He stiffened, and turned. Dobby shot down into a bow immediately, two of his hats falling off of his head to the ground. The potions master glared at him, but had not the patience to spare him a reprimand. He merely waved a hand—the hats appeared back in their places, and then he turned and stormed away, this time sans follower.

* * *

Well after their lesson, Hermione remained energized, and thus paced in her dorm, a book in her hand, although her thoughts were too divided to read properly and she had not turned the page in nigh on half an hour. The curtains of her four poster were opened, revealing a thatch of emerald throw and a bandy-legged familiar sprawled atop it, as well as an array of open books and scattered parchment. After their lesson had concluded earlier that afternoon, Hermione had delved into her summer assignments, rather than inflect as she had wanted. They were abandoned, however—she was never very good at keeping her mind distracted.

She was irritated from her lesson… Professor Snape had led her to find such beautiful oblivion, and now he was restricting her from it and it was only through it that she could grow further. She understood his reasoning—she had, after all, read the books he had given her. At the time, their relevance had not been obvious. Now, having experienced the Divide, she knew exactly why he had given them to her: to warn against its temptations. She grimaced, remembering it was no longer attainable unless he was present, and halted in her pacing. Crookshanks seemed to sense her anxiety and lifted his head, peering through half-slits of glowing yellow-orange eyes.

"Does no one have faith in my abilities?" She muttered at him, "Am I that pitiful that I can't be trusted to know my own limits?"

He purred indignantly—he trusted her and that should have been enough.

She smiled at him, ruefully, "At least _you_ think I'm a capable witch…"

He stared—she returned the favor, smirking, stroking his ego as she trailed a finger along his nose and scratched the plan sweetly.

"One day, Crooks," she murmured, tapping his nose, then lifting her arms over her head to stretch, "They'll realize they should have listened to me all along—magic or not, I am very perceptive. I may lack power, but I am quite… _insufferable._ My dad always said hard work trumps luck and talent."

The cat mimicked her movements, reaching his arms out over the emerald throw to reveal sharp claws. She plopped down beside him, the book abandoned among the rest, and threw her body down over the throw, drawing what corner Crookshanks' spared for her as a pillow.

Orange eyes peered into amber and they reflected upon each other, mirroring each tilt of the head, master reflecting familiar and vice versa.

"Did you know…" she told the cat with a gossiping tone, "I saw the Mirror of Erised during my lesson… at least, what I thought it would look like from what Harry described."

The half-kneazle appeared disinterested, retreating from their mimicry to rest his head upon his paws with a bored expression. She continued the conversation, tracing the pattern of the wool with her fingertips around his paw.

"It was empty—the mirror," Hermione said in a befuddled sort of way, "Well, at least, it did not show me anything except for my actual reflection. I went to touch it—"

Crookshanks lifted his chin when she tapped his paw suddenly. He accused her with his eyes—if there were a brow to lift he would have.

She rolled onto her back, lifted her hand as if she were once again reaching for the glass, but turned her face to keep him in sight, "But the glass melted away… dissolved into the blackest of puddles…" she could not say what exact black they were… could not voice, even to Crookshanks, that they were very much like the depth of Professor Snape's abyssal black eyes. Crookshanks hissed and she continued with her tale, "It—the puddle—grew and grew… and when it stopped, I was standing in front of the Black Lake. When I dropped to peer into my reflection, I saw many other things—things I desired, even though the mirror had failed to reveal them to me. You were there," she mused to him, crinkling her eyes when he appeared—abandoning the warmth of the throw to curl against her chest, "And Harry and Ron—even Professor Snape and McGonagall… all the Weasleys. And we were happy, normal… But the lake grew suddenly cold, freezing cold—and the water turned from black to white, frosted over into pure ice, capturing you all within it... What does that mean, Crookshanks? Will there be a blizzard... or have my desires been frozen until I can find my magic? Will my heart grow cold like my body? Am I thinking too much about this all? But it _was_ my mind..."

Crooks purred, lowered his head to brush his forehead to her chin… he, unfortunately, did not know everything, although sometimes he believed he did.

She stroked his neck absently, her brow furrowed, "Of course, I am."

Her face screwed into a frown at the thought that she should consult her Divination textbook… when had the subject gained weight in her opinion?

 _When you realized that Lord Voldemort would kill you for a bloody prophecy with his name on it…_

"It's just strange to find yourself in your own head. You don't know quite what to think... for lack of a better term. Now that I've been there I'm not so sure that I am the same girl I was before."

She curled into Crookshanks with a sigh, and drew a book up to her nose, sighing.

"At least, now, I might find my magic," she murmured into his fur.

Crookshanks, however, was already fast asleep and couldn't respond anyhow. Rather than wallow as she wanted to, she tried to focus on memorizing the NEWT level Runes she had been assigned, and ended up shoving it away and burying her face in the pillow of orange fur and reaching for sleep.

* * *

"Severus… this is unexpected."

Poppy had been relaxing in her office when she had felt the wards chime. At first, she had thought the headmaster had returned—when she emerged, however, it was not the twinkling-eyed Albus, but the dark-haired Severus. He stood in the threshold like the vampire students accused him of being—hesitant to enter her domain, as usual—his arms crossed and his chin lifted defiantly to peer down his nose at her. Tall as he was, he needn't make such effort to do so, but he had always had a flare for dramatics.

"Spare me the pleasantries, Madam."

She glared. He sneered.

"I have… business outside of the castle's domain," the wizard muttered towards her, avoiding her gaze to pick at invisible lint on his sleeve, before crossing his arms once more. She noticed that he was paler than ever and the shadows beneath his eyes were a deep purple color. The tell-tale signs of exhaustion or depression were littered in every pore of his sallow skin—slightly chapped lips, lined brow, yellowed nails, blood-shot eyes. When was the last time he had slept?

She lifted a brow—was he finally coming to his senses and seeking her assistance… did he expect to return injured and in his state, knew he would need her to charm his wounds?

The sneer he wore answered otherwise… she resisted the urge to roll her eyes and allowed him to affront her with a typical glare.

"Well," she began to say despite him, "What must I prepare for your return? Your personal brew? Blood-replenishing? _Burn-paste."_

His eyes snapped to hers, daring her to speak further of the subject of his Cursed back. She merely raised a brow, unrelenting to his fear-inspiring expression.

"I do not have the time to endure your brand of henpecking," the wizard snapped impatiently, "As you are aware, the castle is devoid of its typical defenses thanks to the headmaster's designs and the current… political climate which has driven most of our colleagues to their families for the hols. Albus has left me as the main facilitator of the Founder's magic in his absence. However, I cannot delay this summons any longer without consequence."

"I see," the nurse frowned, "And…?"

"And," the man said uncomfortably—for a moment, she remembered the boy he had once been. He uncrossed his arms, then lifted his right hand. From his ring finger, he plucked a heavy silver ring—the Founder's Sigil, "Someone must wear it."

"Are you certain?" The mediwitch frowned at the ring which Severus offered to her—she knew what it was and what it would entail if it were in her possession.

He sneered in response, "It's you or Argus, Madam… I will not explain why you are, unfortunately, the better choice in this incidence."

She appeared offended in some way, but held out her hand expectantly.

It was, of course, too large for her fingers, having been suited to his for a decade and more, but after a time it adjusted magically to suit her narrower digits. Her gray-green eyes fixated upon it and she appeared heavily distressed.

"Is this… typical?" She asked with a grimace, "It's—very heavy… loud."

He scowled, "No—the responsibility is usually shared amongst the heads and Albus, and only during the school terms. Miss Granger's presence and his absence have… aggravated the castle, for lack of a more delicate term. She has not been allowed to rest and, hence, neither have I."

"Naturally," she replied.

"If something should happen—"

"Do you think something will happen?"

He frowned, "No, but—"

"Then nothing will happen, Severus," she interrupted, "But yes, I will protect the castle as best as I can."

"No," the potions master said, "You will leave the castle to the elves. You and Miss Granger will evacuate, promptly—send a Patronus to their tower, and her elf, Dobby, will bring her to you. The ring will give you time enough to escape... If it burns, you will wait for the girl, and then you will both flee through the nearest Secret Entrance. Apparate somewhere safe—obscure, Muggle if you can manage it, then seek out Minerva or Arthur Weasley-any Weasley, actually, except for Percival."

The nurse seemed pensive, and began to speak to him.

"Fine, but Severus—"

He was already walking away, unwilling to submit himself to her coddling or prying.

"For Merlin's sake, I'm not going to nag you!" She called to him urgently, "Just… please, be careful!"

He turned his face to glance her over… instead of saying anything biting, he merely nodded and swept away.

Poppy stared after him, her finger rolling the ring absently around and around—it would never truly suit her… after all, the Head of Slytherin bore the burden quite well, despite it all. She knew he would not trade it for all the peace in the world, even if he made it seem as if he hated every last child who walked the halls of Hogwarts. In the end, no one who wore this ring day in and day out could fool the castle into believing they were unworthy of the position they bore.

If only he would see himself in such a light, she thought as she prepped a bed for him. He could berate her all he liked, but he wouldn't receive the ring until he had been thoroughly rested and reflected on such musings.

* * *

When Severus tapped into the magic of his Dark Mark and apparated from the gates of Hogwarts, it pinched his skin painfully until he arrived. He refrained from grabbing his forearm to relieve the tension when he appeared at the Designated Apparition point within the grounds of Malfoy Manor. A rare few were permitted access to the (quite illegal) restricted wards of the Manor and he recognized their pull and the bushes of Everroses immediately.

It required blood magic to perforate such intricate wards as the Malfoy's, but they were, after all, Death Eaters and blood magic was little compared to other rituals he had participated in. He frowned, realizing that if he had been brought here, then his brothers would have been cued into the same ancestral wards.

The House of Malfoy was now the seat of the Dark Lord… and that would mean nothing good for Narcissa and Draco. With Lucius absent to protect them, he hoped they would be intelligent and cunning enough to accept the dark lord properly.

He ascended the narrow path from the Everrose Garden briskly and with a heavy scowl. His demeanor amongst his brothers was not much different than the one he wore around his students—consistency was key, after all. A few low-rank Death Eaters lingered around the entrance, but they recognized him immediately and spared him little more than a glance when he swept into the foyer.

Pettigrew, of course, was the first to greet him. He stifled the surge of anger when the rat grinned at him gleefully, as if they were old friends and not rival contemporaries.

"Wormtail," he sneered in greeting.

The grin faltered on the pointed face of the traitor. For one moment, his eyes burned with displeasure—had he been a more courageous man, Severus had no doubt that he would have cursed him as _Snivellus_ rather than the stuttering, "S-Severus," that he had managed.

The potions master had hoped to ignore him, but he placed himself firmly in his path, displaying a semblance of the courageous stupidity that had landed him in House Gryffindor.

"The dark lord will be pleased you have finally arrived," he murmured excitedly.

Severus cast him a harried look, puzzled at the strange tone of giddiness that remained. Typically, Pettigrew kept his distance from him and would never _dare_ step in his path. Today, however, he appeared… clingy, eager.

Friendly.

"I have little patience for chatter, Pettigrew," he shooed towards the rat.

"Oh, but I am still to accompany you to His side," the rat urged, bowing slightly at the mention of the dark lord, "We wouldn't want to displease our master, Severus."

The potions master gritted his teeth and hissed, "No, we would not. Lead the way, if you must—but _silently_."

He waved his hand impatiently and Pettigrew scurried ahead, teetering his teeth in that obnoxious way that he had done in their youth. Severus pondered the possibility that he had not been born a man at all, but was rather a rat who had been transfigured into the shape of a baby. Somehow, it was more believable that this was true than the fact that he had been friend of Lily Evans and betrayed her.

His fists clenched— _prepare yourself, Severus._

 _Patience, Little Prince._

That was a trait he did not command easily, but the presence of the dark lord was enough to send his hair on end and so he managed, and quite beautifully despite himself.

"Ssssseverus," the dark lord greeted.

He was giving audience, of course. Notable Death Eaters were present—those who had not shamed themselves with their capture at the Department and thus were now even more eager to prove themselves: the Carrows, a brother and sister—newly Marked, if he could guess by their grimaces—as well as Gibbon, Rowle, Selwyn, and Yaxley. He sneered at them all as he passed. Their eyes were heavy upon his back, whispering amongst themselves… questioning of his intentions as always.

"Perfect timing, as usual, Severus," Bellatrix crooned from her perch at the left-hand side of the Dark Lord, where she was wiping the blood from her wand onto her dress. Some of it remained, and when she tapped her wand against her cheek it left a red smudge at the corner of her mouth. When she smiled, it disappeared, "You've missed all the fun."

"How unfortunate," he drawled with a stiff bow to the dark lord.

"Now, Bellatrix," the dark lord said smoothly. The body that was huddled, lifeless, on the floor at his feet was nudged away with a flick of his wand, "Severusss bears a heavy burden—he frolics amongst the undesirables. You nor I could stomach such a task and we should all be grateful for Severus' sacrificesss and be more mindful of how disappointed he must feel to be absent from his master'ssss side."

Severus glanced to the face of the man who had been very obviously cursed to death. His eyes were absent from their sockets and his veins had turned black beneath his skin and were bulging outward. He tensed inwardly and felt sick when he felt a twinge of relief when he did not recognize the person as a witch or wizard…

 _Muggle or magical,_ he told himself, _his life once mattered to someone._

After all, Miss Granger's parents were muggles. What if this were her father?

Knowing such thoughts would be his death, he kept his eyes downcast when the Carrows dragged the body away, leaving a trail of blood in their wake, "Your praise humbles me, my lord."

"As it should. Rise, my son," he commanded sleekly. The snake, for whatever reason, was not present, and Severus was grateful for that. Instead of Nagini, Bellatrix slithered around the dark lord, a dark blemish upon the world with a sickeningly mad smile in his direction.

"Oh, yes, we are all very grateful! In fact—" she clapped her hands together, "—please, my lord, may I present the gift?"

The dark lord glazed his eyes over her lazily, then waved a hand in deferral.

She grinned at him. It was then that Severus noticed the presence of Narcissa Malfoy. She was slightly in the shadows, hovering in the background like an ornament that had been forgotten. Her posture was stiff as he remembered, but there was a tenseness to her mouth that made him pause. Of course, she would not be as accepting of the dark lord in her home as her husband might have been. Then again, Lucius would have abhorred it just the same… in his way.

And where, then, was Draco?

"The dark lord has decided that your loyalty deserves recognition," Bellatrix stepped forward, then grabbed Pettigrew by the elbow and shoved him towards Severus. The potions master sneered and stepped out of the way of the collision, allowing the fool to stumble forward, clutching that bloody silver hand of his and glaring at the floor in contempt, "Peter is going to be your new house guest!"

"House... guest?" He asked calmly.

"It is my wish, Severus, that Pettigrew serve you this summer," the dark lord began with eyes heavy upon Severus, "In your home as an aide... of sorts."

The potions master felt panic surge from the depths of his defenses. If the dark lord was giving him a servant, it meant that he suspected him of disloyalty. Although his reasoning had been sound and his memories had supported him, the dark lord had found something he did not care for. Pettigrew was to spy on him, that was certain.

"I fear that will be impossible, my lord," he replied defiantly.

" _Crucio_!"

It lacked fervor, but the dark lord was powerful and the pain surged from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He did not bite his tongue, this time, but his arm twisted in an uncomfortable way that he knew would flare later, when he could allow himself to feel the pain.

"Forgive me," he pled nobly, bowing his head stoically.

"You reject a gift from the dark lord?" The beastly woman demanded, lifting her wand.

Her master halted her movement with a lazy snap of his wand, which disarmed her.

"I tire of your games, Bella," he sighed. She pouted, but resolved to pace behind him, glaring all the while at Severus, "Explain yourself, Severus."

"The headmaster has tasked me to remain at Hogwarts…" the spy spoke carefully—protecting Miss Granger was paramount, but protecting his cover surpassed her life, as sickening as that was, "He blames me for the death of the dog, I believe."

Bellatrix halted, furious, "It was _I_ who killed Sirius Black!"

"Were he not a criminal, the entire world would know that, of course, and the old fool knows it just as surely as Potter does. He also, knows, however, that given the opportunity, I would have gladly dueled you for the opportunity," the potions master spat, "I, however, was not invited for such fun. The fact remains that I did not prevent the Battle and considering Black's death has distressed Potter—"

"Oh, yes," the dark lord mused, "The boy's distress is quite… pleasing to me."

 _For fuck's sake, Potter,_ Severus cursed the boy. If he could not control that connection, even after the grief he had caused himself and Granger, then there was no hope for any of them.

"The headmaster is suspicious," the spy muttered, "He wills me to his side, in hopes that I will be… comforted by his friendship and compelled to divulge more to him. He wants to prevent as many deaths as possible, or so he claims."

"And there is nothing else?" The dark lord offered.

Severus paused, contemplated. Something, however, in his mind pressured him to refrain. He lifted his gaze and the dark lord pierced him with vivid, slitted rub eyes. Every cell of blood within his narow frame chilled, as he knew instantly that he was to agree. The dark lord wanted him to lie… at least amongst friends.

And that could mean many things, but there was no time to contemplate them.

"No, my lord…"

He made the appearance of considering it, but Severus knew his mind was made up well before he spoke.

"You will remain at Hogwarts, then, to appease the old fool. He should have learned by now that deaths are inevitable, regardless of his blind faith, when you oppose the _truly powerful,i"_ the dark lord decided regally.

Then he snapped towards the forlorn looking rat, "Wormtail."

The rat sputtered, "My-my lord?"

"You will continue to assist Madam Malfoy in receiving our friends," the dark lord drawled, "Does this arrangement suit you, Narcissa?"

"Whatever my lord wishes suits me perfectly," she spoke softly, but with an air of arrogance that was undeniable, "The ancestral home of Malfoy is forever indebted to you, my lord."

"If only your fool of a husband would have succeeded," the dark lord said, "I would not have needed to borrow it from you. Now, I have business with Severus. Leave us… all of you!"

Severus' head felt heavy, clouded. He dropped his eyes and contemplated the stone, his thoughts guarded and treacherous as the dark lord had retreated…

 _Tread softly,_ he warned himself.

As if that were possible in a pit of snakes.

* * *

In dreams, Hermione was escaping the clutches of a Red Queen dressed in the robes of Bellatrix Lestrange, chasing the tail of a White Rabbits who sounded like Luna Lovegood, and laughing at the side of a Mad Hatter who wore the face of Severus Snape.

She was puzzled when she woke—he had, after seemed very ridiculous as the Hatter—and also because she was freezing cold. It was a chill, she realized, that had descended in the absence of Crookshanks' weight upon her chest… he had not only abandoned her, but he had purposefully pulled the emerald throw from around her shoulders—prompting her to follow him to wherever it was he had gone. That, or she had thrown them from herself, and that was quite unlikely given her attachment to the thing.

She sat straight up, peering into the darkness to find where he had escaped. Books were sent scattering over the edge of the bed as she searched for him with her hands, and they crashed to the floor with thuds and thunks.

"Crookshanks?" She called.

She heard him hiss in response and promptly reached for a wand that wasn't there. In a heartbeat, she realized her stupidity, readjusted herself, and surged forward out of the bed. After stumbling out of the dorm through the cracked door, she found herself on the stairwell, holding her fingers against the wall to keep from falling in the dark. Crookshanks, hardly more than a shadow, was poised against an invisible figure on the landing, hissing wildly and glaring at nothing with glowing orange eyes.

"Crookshanks, what—"

And then the half-kneazle pounced with grace and speed he did not usually command. He was, however, immediately suspended in mid-air—frozen with magic by the looks of it.

Hermione's blood chilled and she hesitated, torn between running towards Crookshanks and escaping into her dorm to safety.

"Who's there?" She demanded instead, feet planted, pretending to reach for a wand in her pocket threateningly.

When there was no response, she spoke again, "Reveal yourself, coward!"

The air grew heavy for an instant and then there was a soft pop. Before her eyes, a small figure appeared. Before she had the time to realize who it was, Dobby had thrown himself to the ground and was crushing his forehead against the stone with a heavy sob.

"Dobby has failed—Dobby has dishonored the castle and-and—" _smack!_ "and its great and noble Potions Master!"

She sagged in relief—it was only Dobby. Her heart remained thudding in her chest, however, even as it clenched when his forehead thumped against the stone once more.

"Stop," Hermione pleaded, dropping heavily to her knees and reaching to soften the thud of the elf's forehead against the stone, "Dobby, please, will you explain?"

"Dobby mustn't! Dobby can't! Dobby is a bad elf!"

"Dobby is a _fine_ elf. Please, it's alright," Hermione insisted, before she peeled him up from his feet so that they were eye-level. She peeked at his forehead, worried it would bruise or split, but there was no obvious wound save a soft bump, "You needn't explain, but please, don't hurt yourself! You're hurting me if you do!"

"Oh!" the elf wailed in despair, "Dobby has injured Harry Potter's friend! Dobby is sorry—Dobby will leave Hogwarts at once. Dobby will never return!"

Hermione gathered her breath through her nose, then expelled it. After gathering her patience she said sternly, " _Dobby_ , you will stop insulting and injuring yourself at once! You will not leave Hogwarts unless you want to—"

He, however, made to argue, and was lifting his fingers to snap himself away.

"I command it," she said quickly. She then grimaced, and added hastily, " _Please_."

 _So much for SPEW,_ she sighed inwardly.

The elf sniffled, but nodded and lowered his fingers, slumping against the stone wearily.

She leaned backward on her calves and glanced at Crookshanks. The elf's eyes followed and although he winced in anticipation, he snapped his fingers and the cat was in motion once more. He flew towards the empty space where Dobby had once hidden, invisible, and howled when he realized his victim had moved.

The kneazle ended up skidding forward towards the wall, narrowly escaping certain collision with a swift turn of his body. When he gathered his bearings, he made a sniffing sound of displeasure and hissed at Dobby, before promptly disappearing back into the dorm with a flick of his tail towards his mistress.

"Sorry for that," Hermione apologized, rubbing the sleep from her eye, "He is very protective."

"Dobby can sees that," the elf muttered. Hermione smiled at him, and straightened the hats on his head—they were of her own making, "Miss is fortunate to have a protective familiar…"

Although he seemed sincere, she noted the frown on his face that indicated he was not as thankful of the existence of Crookshanks as she was.

"It's good to see you, Dobby," she answered warmly, changing the subject slightly.

The elf appeared bashful and then was excited, "Dobby is always pleased to encounter Harry Potter's Friend! Dobby is very lucky to also call Harry Potter friend—"

"Dobby, you're my friend, too," She laughed slightly when he swooned and clapped.

"Dobby is very lucky, indeed," he giggled, "To have the smartest witch of the age as his friend! Dobby will never forget that."

She felt her heart grow heavy with pride and stifled the prickling of happy tears that pushed against the back of her tired eyes.

"Is that why you're here, then?" She asked teasingly, "To check on your friend?"

The elf hesitated, his ears drooping, "Dobby shouldn't say."

Hermione pondered it for a moment. It was fairly obvious that Dobby had been sent there of someone else's accord, rather than of his own.

"Has Madam Pomfrey sent you?" She asked with a suspicious glare.

The elf shook his head.

"The headmaster?" Had he returned?

The elf's shoulders hunched and he shook his head.

Her brows shot to her hairline, "Professor Snape?"

The elf sagged and nodded and she noticed his fingers twitch—expectant of punishment.

She pondered the wall, "But… why?"

Dobby made a suffering sound, "Dobby should not say. Dobby was supposed to remain undetected."

She was thinking hard, however, "Has he left Hogwarts?"

The elf twitched, and that was enough for her. She stood up and began to descend the stairs, taking each more quickly than the last.

"Miss Granger," the elf insisted, grabbing for her hand to prevent her from taking another, "Miss must stay in the Tower!"

"Why?" she asked, even as she tugged him down the stairs.

"Master Snapes has commanded it!"

"And why has he commanded it?" She asked aloud, squeezing his fingers and willing him to let go at the same time.

Dobby struggled to keep her within the stairwell, and instead bumped along as she headed for the Common Room.

If Snape had left, then there was only one place he would go… the dark lord. The last time that had happened, he had returned half-broken. What if this time, he returned dead... or did not return at all?

"Dobby does not know," the elf answered honestly, "But Dobby must protect Miss Granger. Miss Granger must stay in the Tower until Master Snapes returns!"

Hermione made a sound of frustration, "And if he does not return?"

Dobby sounded upset at that and she realized herself—realized that she was being cruel to him in her urgency.

She stopped tugging on his arm and sighed, dropping onto the bottom step with her chin in her hands. It wasn't as if she could do anything, anyway—she was magicless, after all. Whether or not he was injured or bleeding or bruised, nothing she could do could ever help him. How could she think she, of all people, could be his... well, whatever it was? Indebtee?

Dobby seemed afraid of her, for a moment, before he realized she was upset... after she had burst into tears, of course.

All at once, the emotions she had been avoiding exploded—Hermione felt as if the glass she had been encased in shattered and every feeling she had suppressed came spilling from her like steam. Tears rolled down her cheeks in fat droplets which quickly turned to wet streams that dripped onto her sleeves. Her shoulders hunched and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing into the fabric uninhibited as her body curled into a ball.

She cried for a long time, rocking back and forth in a mindless way, until the thought crossed her mind that perhaps if she cried too much her magic would react adversely. She tensed and sat up, tried to subdue the next sob, but it was too strong for her and expelled in a strangled wail, far worse than any of the previous ones.

Dobby was standing in front of her, wringing his hands, looking distressed. Eventually, however, he reached forward and patted her shoulder. It was enough to make her feel slightly worse and she cried harder, still, for a time, before the motion soothed her long enough that she could suck in a weary breath.

Her head lifted, but she could not create a coherent thank you. The elf offered her a handkerchief—one of the mittens she had made for another elf, which they had passed off to him rather than accept it themselves.

"Oh, Dobby, I'm useless! Utterly useless!" She wailed, blowing her nose into the roughly stitched yarn, "Who am I kidding? I wasn't much help in the first place—and now I'm nothing more than a squib!"

"Miss is not useless!" The elf insisted, "Miss is strong—Miss's magic is there, Dobby knows!"

"It is?" The girl sniffled.

The elf nodded and snapped his finger. Hermione gasped when she heard it—the lullaby! It was so soft and gentle, but it was there. Strings plucked from a harp, strung from a violin, trailed across a piano... insantly, however, it was gone.

"How…?"

But Dobby was urging her further, waving it away, "Miss thinks elves deserve freedom, even if elves does not want it. Miss is brave and kind. Miss is Dobby's _friend_! Miss is smartest witch of the age!"

Her body felt weak, drained—but the song had soothed her and it was enough to keep her reaching for her resolve once more. She slumped down on the steps, and thought of Professor Snape… he was no doubt suffering as they spoke. What sort of friend was she, to think of herself before him, when he had done everything to save her without her having ever earned it?

After one last sigh, she straightened and stood—"Dobby, you will keep this a secret between friends, won't you? That you showed yourself to me-on accident, that is?"

He hesitated—obviously as afraid of him as she was.

" _Please_ , it was my fault," she said sadly, "Free elves are allowed secrets with friends."

He made a face of pride, then nodded, "Dobby will still protect Miss as asked."

She smiled, "If Dobby wishes."

And then she turned and headed up the stairs. Dobby remained behind. Rather than return to her dorm, however, she took the stairs to the very top of the staircase, to the prefect's commons (widely unused by Gryffindor's prefects, who preferred the hearth of the lower floor).

Once she had reached the heavy wooden door, she sucked in a breath.

"Aurora Borealis," she murmured, fingers crossed that the password was still the same since the last time she had been forced to visit the blasted study. The heavy golden knocker, in the shape of a lion, glowed and the door cracked open.

She hesitated, then shoved it completely open, revealing a small sitting room with study tables, a variety of chairs, a smaller hearth and an empty portrait (empty for as long as she could remember, at least). With shaky breaths, she crossed the length of the room, eyes downcast. The room was open, of course, to a small terrace that jutted out of the tower. The balcony was beautiful, with carved stone banisters—and the threshold was charmed against the extremes of weather. In winter, the occupants could see the snow fall and would never feel the wind—much like the ceiling of the Great Hall.

Although the other prefects enjoyed the study, the very thought of the balcony made her nauseous and she avoided it like the plague. But it was the highest point in Gryffindor Tower—from there, she could see the gates of the castle even. If Snape took them back, she would know when he returned… and although it took everything for her to not turn back, she took the step needed to leave the castle and find balcony (the tingle of magic the only indication as her eyes were squeezed shut).

As soon as she was there she slunk down to her bum—if she had to be this high up, at least she could feel the ground with all of her limbs—and scooted forward to cling to one of the pillars, leaning her face through it to look over the darkened emerald grounds. Her heart was pounding in her chest, but she kept her eyes open and far away in the distance—determined both to find the dark form of the potions master returning and to avoid the hundreds of feet of air beneath her.

* * *

The room was swiftly cleared, save Severus, the dark lord, and Bellatrix. The witch looked hesitant to leave them, but smirked at her equally dark-haired brother when he lifted his head to accost her with a glare. She quickly relented before the dark lord was forced to give her a second command. The sadistic witch slithered past him, trailing a hand over his arm invasively, before he stepped away from her in disgust, fingers twitching for his wand.

The door slammed shut in her wake and he and the dark lord were left utterly alone… their thoughts guarded between them.

"What is the twit planning, Severus?"

Severus bowed his head… the subject, as yet, would be avoided. He would play the game, as he had no other choice, after all, "As of yet… nothing. There have been no meetings since the… battle, hence the Order remains on the defensive—"

" _We_ are on the defensive, Severus—Lucius ensured as much with his foolishness," the dark lord snapped, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair, "But not for much longer—we must remain overt, my son… at least until we have infiltrated the ministry and Hogwartsss, our vision must be spread under cover of darknesssss and in secrecy."

Severus was expected to be forlorn, and so he nodded politely—he was not an excitable man, anyway. This was evidence enough of his eagerness.

"In a matter of weeks, Fudge will be ousted and all of Britain will be looking to a new minister…"

"And will there be an amicable replacement?" Severus inquired.

The dark lord smirked, "At first? No… we are, as of yet, unprepared for such artistry. The plans are in place, however, and will come to completion in good time."

Severus nodded, pensive, attempting to appear pleased at the notion.

The vivid red eyes, however, then narrowed upon him, and his body was then alert, "There is something elsssse of note, Severus."

"My lord?"

He paused, then his face twisted into an expression of displeasure, "The boy—Draco. He is quite perceptive, I have noticed."

Severus feigned indifference, "Oh?"

" _Quite_ perceptive," he sneered, "I have thoroughly enjoyed exploring the brat's mind with hopes to uncover Potter's greatest weaknesses… it was a pointless endeavor, of course. Just like any Gryffindor fool, the Boy's weakness lies in his relationships to others. Bravery and friendship will be his downfall… like his parents before him. Like all fools who hold love and honor before _power_."

Severus was silent—preparing his mind for the onslaught of pain he was about to endure. The dark lord was dancing around something, and he had an idea what it was. He cursed Draco's perceptiveness—cursed him for paying attention to things he would have been better off ignoring.

Of all people, he had been the one to notice Miss Granger's absence. And Severus, the fool, had thought he could protect the girl within the castle. She was, at that moment, completely vulnerable—utterly, entirely vulnerable. If the dark lord willed it, he could have her. He could force Severus to return to Hogwarts and bring her to him—

But the dark lord did not yet know of Dumbledore's absence, and hence, she was protected. Gods willing, he could protect her further, if he was strong enough.

 _Stronger than iron, stronger than steel,_ he willed his defenses, although it would be quick thinking that saved her from the attentions of the dark lord. He could not know that Albus was away.

"It concerns me Severus that you failed to divulge that Potter's Mudblood companion remained at Hogwarts."

"My lord—"

The man hissed and he bowed his head further, gritting his teeth in preparation for the curse that was bound to come.

"While I do not doubt you have a reasonable excuse, this is a punishable offense. Were Bellatrix privy of the intelligence the boy—unwittingly—divulged, you would have suffered far worse. I, however, have decided to be merciful, considering you bore the brunt of her own punishment quite… beautifully."

The potions master cursed her—and blessed Draco, for remembering his warning of his aunt's utter madness and refraining from allowing her entreaty to his perceptions.

"It is I who knows your mind, Severus, not Bella—if I did not trust you, then you would not be my spy... she will never accept you, because of your… breeding. Do not take it personally—she has my best interest at heart, as you do. You are both equally in my favor, in my opinion."

Severus' held breath expelled slightly… _for now, at least._

"I can forgive you your lack of urgency in this matter, concerning it is of little importance… after all, she is merely a Mudblood babe—of course the fool would want to keep her from my clutches and close to him. But we are at war—any information against Potter could seal my seat of power for all of eternity. You, of all people, know thisss. Do not withhold from me again, no matter the obscurity of the details."

Of course, without Severus, the dark would have never gone after the boy in the first place, and perhaps by now he would have already defeated Him. Or, perhaps, if Lord Voldemort had never heard the prophecy, the boy would never have been fated for the life at all… and Lily Potter would be alive and breathing.

It was Severus' fault that she wasn't, and he would bear the forthcoming punishment for that reason alone.

The younger Slytherin bowed his head and nodded, "Your grace is more than I have ever deserved."

"Remember as such," Lord Voldemort warned, "and you will be rewarded, Severus, many times over. For now, however, I must remind you of your faults… properly."

There was a hiss that expelled from the man's lips—pleasurable anticipation—and then he said the words, " _Crucio!"_

* * *

It was quite dark when the potions master returned. Hermione's eyes had missed the shadow that had appeared and then slumped against the gates in exhaustion—but she could not ignore the flare of fire that erupted not long after. It was not often that Fawkes made himself known to the students of Hogwarts, and in fact she could remember seeing him only once, when she had been called to the headmaster's office in her fourth year to be put to sleep for the Second Task. Harry had seen the bird far more often than she had.

Even from a distance, the fire and thus the phoenix was dazzling. The eternal creature appeared in a burst of flame, illuminating the obviously slumped form of the potions master against the gates. She could hardly see from such a distance—and for a moment she could have kicked herself, because she still had a pair of charmed binoculars that Viktor had given her the summer she had visited him and she had watched him practice.

She blushed at the memories—she'd never told Ron, nor Harry about it. Why did she have to, anyway? They had their secrets from her… she deserved some of her own, especially with the way they had been acting towards her for the past two years. It was as if she was not her own person anymore, but merely the Hermione they had designed her to be—pure, obnoxious, ugly Hermione. Somehow, looking in the empty Mirror of Erised had made her realize how much of herself she had lost once she had become their friend.

It was less so Harry and more so Ron that treated her that way… and she had an idea there was another reason for that. Harry, instead, treated her as if her only purpose was to placate his emotions and boost his ego.

Her mind grew heavy and she realized that she couldn't deal with such thoughts when she was hovering above her death. She fixated across the ground: the light flared again and the shadow that was Professor Snape was then gone with it.

She yanked away from the banister—did not dare stand but instead crawled back into the comfort of the wards. She shivered when the magic descended over her. Her fingers were freezing—it was June, however, and it should not have been so cold, but she had forgotten her body was failing to retain heat as it lacked its core source of energy: magic.

Her bones quivered in response. It had been little more than an hour since she had taken to the balcony, but she felt as if she had been sitting in the depths of a blizzard for an hour.

"Dobby?" She called weakly.

The elf appeared at once with a pop. He frowned at her, and immediately produced a steaming cup of chocolate.

"Miss should not have been outside," he realized ruefully, "Dobby should have not allowed it."

She ignored him and the hot chocolate, "Is Professor Snape alright?"

The elf appeared uncertain, "Dobby does not know, but Dobby can find out! Please, drink this, Miss, and wait."

Hermione merely nodded. Dobby placed the cup of hot chocolate in her hands and then disappeared. She contemplated the cup, then succumbed to it—it was, by far, the most fantastic thing she had ever tasted… complete with cinnamon topping. She had forgotten how much she had adored chocolate… how much her body craved.

 _Must be the lack of magic,_ she noted.

Dobby quickly returned, "Potions Master is in the infirmary."

Hermione blinked, "Willingly?"

The elf looked rueful, "Potions Master _was_ shouting."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

Dobby frowned, "Sirs was asking for something from Hogwarts Matron, but Matron would not give it."

"What was it?" Hermione inquired.

The elf wiggled a finger, "Was a ring, Miss! Matron has bowered it from Potions Master."

She made an expression of confusion—they were engaged? But she was so much… older. No, that wasn't it.

"Why won't she give it back?" She asked Dobby.

The elf's ears flopped down, "Matron Pomfrey says Master Snape needs help and she would give the ring back when Sirs rested."

Hermione relaxed slightly at that… whatever Madam Pomfrey was withholding from him, he was at least receiving some sort of medical care. Once the mediwitch had someone in their grasp, she was rue to let them escape it.

"Thank you, Dobby," she murmured and took a large gulp of the hot chocolate.

He nodded.

Crookshanks appeared then, slipping through the door she had left cracked… and Dobby immediately tensed.

"Dobby must returns to the kitchens—Dobby's friend should sleep, so Miss's magic can grow back," the elf added hastily.

Before Hermione could ask him to stay—to explain what he had meant by growing back—he had disappeared with a pop, just before Crookshanks pounced upon the place where had had once stood.

"What did you do that for?" She pouted at the cat.

He brushed up against her knee—no doubt having sensed her anxiety—both for the potions master and from facing her greatest fear to stand vigil for him. She needn't have worried… Madam Pomfrey had accepted this round. But Madam Pomfrey would not always have leverage over Professor Snape and she vowed that she would remain to assist him even if he did not want her.

At least, once she could figure out how to trick him to accept her help. For now, she was stuck waiting for him at the top of the tower and carefully gleaning information from his own informant.

"Hey!" She murmured, returning from her reverie to find Crookshanks eagerly lapping at her lukewarm chocolate.

He glanced upward for a moment, then continued. She relented, leaving the cup for him and standing.

She drifted down the stairwell back to her bed and, without her familiar to hog it, huddled beneath the emerald throw. Her mind remained restless, however—wondering what the potions master had endured and whether or not Madam Pomfrey had succeeded in assisting him. The wool comforted her, soothing her worries, but did not quell them completely.

When she slept, she dreamt she was sitting with the Hatter, the Rabbit, and the Queen, pondering the solid, frozen lake, now slightly thawed and cracking beneath her—but it was Professor Snape (truly and not the Hatter beside her _and_ thus he was sneering rather than jeering) that she saw in the reflection between the crack of ice, whole and healthy and _young_ at the head of the Hogwarts table, with her and Madam Pomfrey standing proudly at his side.


	10. Recitations

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay! Like I've said before, I have two jobs, and although winter break started at school, I got roped into covering for not one job, but BOTH. It's been hectic. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Ten

Recitations

* * *

"Well, if it isn't the gormless hag, herself, come to face me like the thorn in my side that she is."

Madam Pomfrey had just emerged from the adjoining quarters and her stern expression slipped, revealing her irritation as she addressed her lone patient tersely, "Severus, it's only been five hours—"

"I've succumbed to your conditions of extortion long enough, now uphold your end of this rigged bargain and return my ring!"

The usually even if dripping tone of his silky timbre was slightly rougher in eloquence than she remembered when it shouted so violently. She, in her own tiredness, bristled at the deepness of his voice as he accosted her with it and his piercing black eyes.

His body betrayed him, however, as it immediately jerked involuntarily, remnants of a spasm that traveled from his face to his fingers. The softness she felt for him returned, a mere flutter, but enough that it made her remember herself and what she had promised she would do for that small, lonely boy she had nearly forgotten about.

"You'll stay in that bed until I see fit to release you— _once_ you have properly rested."

Obstinate as he ever, he growled towards the wall, "I am not some blubbering fourth year Hufflepuff you can induce over a stubbed toe."

"This is hardly a stubbed toe, Severus… your body is exhausted and has just endured severe—"

"My body is _my_ business, _Madam_ , and had you not held a possession of mine hostage, it would not be present for you to pester and prod," Professor Snape seethed—crooked teeth gritted tightly together and eyes cut into slits that gave him the appearance of a bat snarling into the bright light of day.

He leaned towards her, gripping the sheet she had draped around him, yet also pointing at her accusingly with the same hand, "I will not be dragged here, held against my will—"

The woman lifted to her full height, "Severus, be reasonable—"

The professor didn't allow her to finish, interrupting her snappishly, "I am quite capable of determining what lengths of injury I can endure and when those injuries require me to seek medical attention. I hardly remember you ever caring before—what reason do you have now? Growing sentimental with age, Madam?"

The nurse said nothing. She stood before the potions master, slightly deflated, her eyes soft even though her face was hard. The man glared at her, his mouth hard and gritting, onyx eyes fixed to her face vindictively. They were blank, emotionless… she, however, could be as equally as stubborn and, in her mind, she had decades to make up for where it concerned one Severus Snape. What he said was true… she _was_ growing sentimental with age.

Sentimental enough to treat a Death Eater spy, simply because she could not remove his sins from the image of the sickly, lonely, angry boy he had once been… at least, not anymore.

"Regardless of your opinions, I suggest you relax," she gritted her own teeth together—the weight of the ring was heavier than she thought it would be (quite literally it was the burden of the lives within the castle) and the magic was rather draining on her, "With that sort of attitude, you'll be here all summer."

This ancient enchantment tied to the ring was not unlike healing magic—the castle and he coexisted together to protect the students, one feeding off the other and vice versa, just as she and her magic worked to heal wounds and mend bones.

Severus was its bearer for a reason—she knew that now, just as she knew he was a good man beneath all the grim and grime.

The man snorted darkly, "If you think for one second—"

"I do not think, Severus, I know—until the tremors have passed, you will remain in that bed. Now, quit being obstinate and try and sleep, for Merlin's sake," she tried to sound indifferent, but at the end her voice was softer and motherly. He flinched, slightly, when she reached to pat the end of his bed as she did with many of her patients, and she forced herself to turn away rather than be accosted with another one of his heartless glares.

With her back to him, Severus gritted his teeth— _Foolish mediwitch._ She _had_ grown soft with age, and it was quite clear to him now that she was beginning to have second thoughts about his… truer nature.

Consequently, he would have to have words with Albus—no doubt the old fool had given the order to the blasted phoenix to bring him to this banshee's doorstep, but even if he hadn't (and if the bastard ever decided to return), he was displeased with this turn of events. On no circumstance was he to ever be brought to the hospital wing unless he _desperately_ required it…

It was far too risky for not only the Hogwarts nurse, but for his own person, _and_ for the students at Hogwarts. If he were to be detected by the wrong student, it would be life or death—for Poppy, for himself… for the witness.

For Potter.

That hadn't stopped Albus from sending the begrudging witch knocking on his dungeon doors many a time, or sending Hagrid to retrieve him when it would have been better to send the phoenix or come himself. Although he was wise in age and devoted to the cause, sometimes Severus wondered if he just wanted to make his life more difficult.

His refusal of care wasn't merely out of spite, either, or pride alone. He deflected even her professional offers of assistance mostly because he had grown so accustomed to pain that he honestly could not tell the difference. He did not deny that he resented her enough to avoid her regardless, but he also genuinely did not believe he needed help, and if he did, he didn't deserve it anyhow… professionally or personally.

Thankfully enough, the nurse and he had been in mutual agreement about that, once upon a time. Pomfrey was once quite content to ignore him as much as he was to avoid her—but now… now she had sniffed out an injury like a bloodhound on the trail of a murderer and she would not rest until it was charmed, stitched, and sealed.

Obviously, he had not wanted her to be aware of it, but she just could not resist _prodding_ given the opportunity. Being the nosy witch that she was, she would now want to stick her curiosity where it did not belong (his backside), despite having once believed him to be the bane of the castle.

Now, having seen something (whatever, he could not hope to discern) that betrayed his true intentions, she hoped she could repay him for all the wounds she had not healed when he had been a rude boy. She was offering him the same overbearingness she had offered her students in the past, the ones who had been worthy of her affections—Potter, Senior and Junior, and Black. Severus felt his blood boil at the thought… she'd been partial to Lupin, too. But not Severus… no, Severus caused all the trouble for her beloved Marauders. Not being a forgiving man, he felt no love for her in return, especially after all the years he had been ignored and then detested by her.

Too bad for her, he was as rude a man as he had been a boy. Regardless, the Curse could not be removed and the wounds would not be healed, except at the greatest of costs… costs too great for her to pay, or any other. After all, his life wasn't worth even a quarter of the life of… well, of anyone else's, if he were being honest with himself.

"If you need a sleeping potion—"

She had turned on her heel when he had not responded, but instead glared holes into the wall.

"For _fuck's_ sake, Poppy, don't be mindless as you are spineless," he growled, rubbing absently at his empty ring-finger, "What have I ever done to deserve to be tortured with you as my school nurse and now my bloody colleague?"

"I'm certain it is undeserved, Severus," she added gently, "But a reality all the same."

"You will not know peace until I have escaped this bloody hellhole—"

The nurse glared at him, "Oh, go to sleep, Severus! You could use it, from the looks of you—you _bat_!"

The door slammed shut behind her.

The words stung, but he was used to being teased. Rather than wallow, he smirked at the wood for a moment, relishing the look of fury on her face—he did enjoy pushing people's buttons.

He slumped backwards after a time, his body finally succumbing to the weakness he had been fighting since he had fled Malfoy Manor… his mind drifting towards his memories of the many injuries that had led him to the very same bed which he now lay atop.

 _My own personal hell,_ he mused gently, although once upon a decade he had felt safe within these walls. Even if Poppy had not shown him love, she had shown him kindness—before he had been forced to defend himself more viciously and creatively. Every incident with the marauders had chipped away at that artificial kindness (the kind that stemmed from pity rather than genuine interest in his well-being), until one day, she had snapped, just like all the others.

Poppy Pomfrey had written him off as just another bad apple—another destined Death Eater… just as Lily had. And he had given them both reason enough to believe so, although it was hard for him to admit. Rather than do so, he brooded, dark eyes trailing over the vaulted ceiling and wishing he had the nerve or the energy to curse the ring back to his own finger so he could be free of thinking of the past and focus on the present, on the castle, on… well, anything but the shame he often felt after visits with the dark lord.

When he slumped further into the bed, he sighed. He had not noticed how bright the light was until his lids drifted closed over his eyes—the sun was just peaking over the horizon, and considering the intent of the dark lord to breed the Dementors, the warmth of summer would be briefer than it should have been. If he could escape the nurse before the day was through, he might partake in a walk about the grounds, to clear his head… and to stay far away from Miss Granger, if he was careful enough.

With a sneer, he rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing away the tiredness that had draped over him like a weight of fine, heavy wool. It was impossible for him to rest anywhere except within his own quarters, as that was the only place where he felt safe… even Spinner's End was not as comforting to him as the hallowed Hogwarts walls that encased his study and the accompanying chambers—if he was able to escape to them, he would have already been asleep… for a few hours at least, before the nightmares began.

Well, if he had his ring, possibly he could sleep—but without it, he felt naked. Even more naked than being without his frock coat, which was mercifully still buttoned to his throat.

Severus decided he would never give the witch the bloody ring again, whether or not she was the last willing witch in the castle to take it—Argus was magic-less, but at least he kept out of the potion master's affairs!

Scowling at the blanket, he closed his eyes… then opened them, when a pair of glowing red rubies appeared like a plague to haunt his thoughts.

His own black eyes darted towards the office door, where he knew the nurse was laboring over some manner of medicinal potions (at six in the morning, for Merlin's sake, she was a bloody nuisance) and no doubt would be unable to keep him should he choose to abandon the wing, ring or not. He could do it… he was powerful enough, even as weakened as he was.

But he wouldn't. Like he often did after visits with the dark lord, he felt numbed and empty and lost… the anger had passed a few hours before, and with it he was left with nothing, but a nameless sorrow. With the nurse so close to him, he could hardly let himself truly feel it, and thus his shields were lifted and he was forced to hover somewhere between indifference and discomfort.

With his mind protected, his other senses began to take hold. His nose was the strongest, and it caught the distinct copper that tainted the air… blood-replenishing potion, then—the proud woman hadn't even asked him to brew them for her. Of course, she had yet to speak to him since having… overstepped her boundaries days previous.

But she had never been so shy not to send him list upon list of requests, no matter how they quarreled or ignored each other. He'd filled them dutifully for years (with or without request) and would continue to do so. She had never before truly hesitated to harass him when the stocks were as low as they were (and they were frighteningly low, he could assume, considering how strained for time he had been last term).

His stomach clenched once more—it was, once again, out of pity that she cared for him, that she did not ask him to fulfill one of his duties as Potions Master. Although his mind was protected, his magic was weak, and he anger began to return to him as he was reminded that no matter what he did, it was only ever pity that people felt for poor, greasy, skinny Severus. Oh, how he hated the feeling of being pitied… from the moment he had understand what the word meant, he had hated it.

Throwing the blanket fully from his legs, he stood and stretched slightly and silently, bones cracking and his muscles screaming in protest, even when his fists returned to clench at his sides to contain the waves of emotions he was combatting. His weakened legs carried him to the window, where he stood before the sill and glared out at the grounds. Dark eyes surveyed the dark lake and evergreen trees, calming to him now as they had been as a boy—but not enough to keep his heart from thudding as he attempted to make sense of the previous night's events—attempted to calm his emotions by focusing on what was truly the only important thing in his life… fighting the bloody dark lord.

 _"This is a good sign, Severus; it shows that Dumbledore is afraid… afraid enough to let children fight his battles and tend his army's wounds—afraid enough to fear your turn of loyalty."_

 _Severus nodded, but it came out shakier than he had intended—the dark lord's piercing eyes took note of this, crinkling slightly with amusement or pity or both, he was not sure._

 _"Let the headmaster commission a dozen mediwitches, Mudblood or natural born, child or not," the dark lord waved a hand at Severus' trembling—his eyes were a vivid, relentless red that burned Severus when he looked into them, "It will matter little when the Order is dissolved."_

 _"Yes, my lord," he echoed._

 _"You will train the girl properly—we mustn't let the fool suspect you any further… I need you close to him, more than ever."_

 _"Yes, my lord."_

 _"Eventually, however, she will know great pain… Her suffering is Potter's—and I very much want him to suffer."_

 _"As do I, my lord," he replied snarkily, letting his lips curls back in displeasure at the sound of the boy's name. It was not exactly the younger he was thinking of, however, but merely the skewed memory of his blasted father._

 _"Hmmm," the serpentine wizard smirked, "and you have every reason to. Let ussss reap our revenge upon the brat… in time, no matter their effortsss, he will die."_

 _He slithered down the steps towards Severus to place a hand on his quivering shoulder—from damaged nerves rather than from fear, at least this time. Voldemort's grip was tight, stilling the tremors at least in the region around the extremity which he clutched. It was the only form of apology that Severus would ever receive from the man._

 _There were some who would kill for such a redemptive touch. Bellatrix would have keened at a mere brush of his fingers against her cheek—Severus could barely keep from vomiting when the claw-like nails applied more pressure, almost comfortingly._

 _"When we take care of the old fool, your loyalty will never be questioned by Bellatrix or another again— that, Severuss, I promise. You will be free to stand at my right hand, where you belong."_

Severus belonged in hell, he knew, but gods above, he did not wish to think about whether or not he truly belonged at the side of the dark lord. Luckily, he knew the man was full of empty promises designed to bewitch the power-hungry Slytherins who followed him, and believed that this was merely what Severus wanted to hear in order to keep him loyal and happy.

Sickened by the thought of remaining at the man's hand for the rest of his life, he felt his anger crack and dissolve, and his shoulders slumped as he glared out at the line of trees, kissed by the pink tendrils of dawn.

What had the man meant—"take care of the old fool"? Did he have a plan in place to kill the headmaster? Would the act be performed by a student? A Death Eater?

… His loyal—or rather disloyal—spy?

His mother's voice could be heard in his head, "The world doesn't halt for the salt of tears." And he sobered slightly.

She was with him, then, in her way… a tall, cold, ugly woman who stood regally despite her overall appearance of shabbiness. Her raven-dark hair was pulled too harshly away from her angular face, making her sharp cheekbones all the more sharper and her thin lips all the more thinner. Severus avoided looking her in the eye, because he knew if she saw his trembling hands or angry, twisted face she would frown at his displays of emotion.

"Just like your father," she whispered at him, even though he kept his face hidden beneath a curtain of black hair.

"You're not a Prince, at all," she decided when he did not lift his head, "Just a Snape!"

"No thanks to you," he snarled. Of course, when he lifted his head, she was gone… a figment of his imagination.

His fingernails clenched the sill to prevent himself from running his fist through the glass, as he wondered if he had finally begun to lose his mind from the _Cruciatus_. As he trembled to gain control of his emotions, and also his sanity, he caught sight of a small figure trailing by the lake—frizzy haired and small of stature, wearing denim and layered in a jumper that was clearly not suitable for the season.

His eyes narrowed down his nose over the grounds, distracted for a moment by this strange sight. It was Miss Granger, of course, although she was void of books or bag—simply walking the grounds to clear her head, he supposed—rather early in the morning if you asked him, but who was he to question another's habits… he was known for taking strolls in the corridors at four in the morning, after all.

She, too, was known to stand outside the library before it opened at six sharp, if the rumors were to be believed true. He knew they were more than rumors as he had seen her there himself on more than one occasion at fifteen till six… especially as the year grew closer to the examination period.

Rather than continue around the body of water as he would have, she edged closer and closer to the lapping waves. He pondered what she was going to attempt with apprehension—she surely wasn't going to go for a swim with the Giant Squid? Not without supervision—that was against the rules. It was risky enough to let her walk the grounds freely, without protection, without magic—he frowned and remembered his half-Muggle upbringing.

Billions of Muggles survived without magic and Miss Granger was no different. She was vulnerable, but not exactly invalid, now, was she? She had arms and legs and teeth, as he had told her she did, and if she was diving into the lake, he hoped it was because she knew how to swim and not because she didn't.

But she stopped at the waves and instead dropped down before the shoreline. With a droop of her shoulders in relief, she leaned over the water with her arms crossed over her chest so that she was slightly curled into a ball. She sat there for a time, gazing at herself, before she leaned back on her haunches and tilted her face to the sky to bask in the glow of the sun. The light played across her hair, even from this distance, giving her the accessory of a frizzy golden-hued halo.

Even from afar, the curve of her neck was pleasing—elegant and refined, like that of a woman and not a girl. And in that moment, she was also quite beautiful to him… serene and calm and distant, dawn-kissed and haloed. Despite his determination to refrain from thinking about his students in such ways, he acknowledged that she had grown to be something that he had not expected of her… beautiful.

There was a way about her, he thought—plain, yet nobly so, threaded with a bold charm that had, unfortunately, always appealed to him. She was still innocent; whole, loved, charming… everything _he_ was not, and he was such a resentful man—jealous and unforgiving and mean. It was hard for him to accept that he could never compare, only contrast, and so he bowed his head, wallowing in the awkwardness of his gangly limbs and sheet of greasy hair to hide beneath.

So many years ago, his childish mistakes had led to the misery he lived today, just as hers had led her to the crossroads at which she now stood. They were so very different, and yet… not. He gazed back over the grounds, and imagined himself beside her… imagined he was standing on the shore with her.

He could smell the lavender vanilla of the soap or perfume she wore, and he could see the flecks of gold in her amber eyes. She was not smiling, merely concentrating on the waves, ignorant of his presence. If he reached out a hand to touch his, his fingers would graze her forehead, where he had once seen beads of sweat trail down her face as she bored over a particularly difficult fourth year potion. It was clear of sweat, now, and of blemishes, as his own has not been at her age, and un-creased as she was content laying over the shoals of the shore of the lake.

Every moment he stood there, he felt like a man in a trance… unable to move, or breathe, or think. He stood there so long that eventually his hands began to tremble once more, leading him to clench at the sill tightly and slacken against the window to catch his breath. But the window was no longer there—Severus was leaning against nothing, and his throat was constricting. The lake vanished, and he found himself surrounded in moth-eaten curtains and the crumbling wood of a decrepit house.

"Please…" he heard himself sputter, but it hardly was more than choking and gurgling.

When he lifted his hands to his throat he felt hot liquid—it gushed from his neck in pools that coated his fingers. He felt it surge down his throat, into his lungs… he choked and then gasped. His voice was gone and he was falling, falling to his knees and grasping at anything. The wood of the floor felt old and splintered and he knew he was going to die. Every second he lay there, he could feel the life rush away from him…

And, of course, he was alone—the light in the room was dim and gray and unforgiving and the floor smelt like mold and grime and piss. Miss Granger was gone. Madam Pomfrey was no longer hounding him. Even the dark lord's glowing red eyes did not haunt him—

His mother did not come even when he croaked for her.

 _You're dying all alone. All alone. Unloved._

 _Unwanted._

 _Alone._

 _Alone._

 _Alone._

He thought about Lily and his mother… and he thought about Miss Granger, sitting at the edge of the lake, gazing into the water of the Black Lake as if it held all the answers to the universe. What he would give to sit at the edge of the lake one last time, to look into the black water and ask it what he needed to do to win this bloody war.

What would he have to pay to see Lily Evans one more time?

As if he could find answers to either in the depressed little room, his fingers reached out to the nothing of the space around his fingers and for a fleeting moment, he felt the dampness of water—

"Severus!"

He jerked awake, having heard his name spoken in a voice he recognized, but also didn't. When he sat up, he cursed, as his body shrieked in protest. He had drifted asleep… his mind, desperate for rest, had tricked him—

 _I must truly be exhausted,_ he snarled impatiently, wondering at the strange mediocrity of his initial dreams.

It _had_ been days—weeks, maybe—since he had last enjoyed a good night's sleep, and despite the nurse's instructions (extortion) to rest, he had remained awake since he had arrived in the middle of the night. He had been unwilling to submit to her will even though he knew it would be for the best, both because he was stubborn and because the idea of dreaming made his skin crawl. Sometime after she had left him, however, he had drifted to slumber, and his mind had trapped him there with mediocre dreams about being trapped within the wing, before they twisted and turned upon him.

His nerves—literally and metaphorically—were shot and although it was one less stress upon his mind, the absence of the Sigil of Slytherin made him even more anxious.

It took him a few moments, but he tensed when he recognized a weight on his chest… it clearly belonged to a breathing being. The creature or, god forbid, person, however, prevented him from reaching out for his wand, which was a foot away from him on the bedside table. When two pairs of claws pricked his chest in irritation, he did not relent, but rather shifted abruptly.

His eyes flew open, but he was forced to squint as a centimeter from his nose was a squished feline face and glowing orange eyes. The cat now clung to his shirt and was leaning towards him, closed-mouthed, but much too close for comfort.

After an era of staring between them, he asked the beast darkly, "What manner of ugly creature are you?"

The cat, or a variation of some species of kneazle, sneered at him. He padded down the length of Severus' torso, then pounced towards the bedside table. The potions master's eyes widened when he recognized the violet foamed blue potion as one of his own _Cruciatus_ alleviants, which the mediwitch had no doubt pilfered from his frockcoat pocket. She had, of course, been unable to remove the coat from him—much to her chagrin and his content.

The orange beast curled around the vial and eyed Severus, his tail flicking gently in anticipation.

"I will grind your bones into dust, _cretin_ ," the potions master said silkily, "Be gone!"

The creature seemed unoffended. His tail flicked to and fro and his orange eyes remained steady upon the potions master, daring him to move faster than he.

Severus lifted his hand, although he knew it was unwise to use wandless magic, and there was a (albeit mild) stunner on his lips… The beast—smarter than he was ugly, it seemed—relented from the direction of any spell he would have cast, although in the commotion he sent the vial clattering against the counter of the bedside table where it spun with a string of tinkling sounds to follow.

Severus snatched the vial, perhaps too tightly, as the clunky square base made marks into his palm.

"Off with you, meddlesome vermin," he glowered at the cat, sitting upright and motioning at it with his boot.

The hideous orange creature did not leave the wing, but he did wisely retreat to a safe haven a distance away from the sneering wizard. Bandy-legs padded across the neatly made covers of a distant bed before he plopped onto his bum directly upon the lone pillow. For whatever reason, he proceeded to stare at the potions master intensely.

Severus sneered at the beast, then drew the vial open with his thumb and tossed the concoction into his mouth, swirled, then swallowed. It was sweet-tasting (by his own design, as he… naively expected, or rather hoped, when making it that he would be the only one to take it regularly). Because of this, it went down smoother than most potions… but the side-effect afterward was that he was at a loss of appetite (not that he had much of one to begin with).

All in all, this potion, which he lamely dubbed the _Cruciatus_ potion, was designed to counteract the long-lasting effects that the curse had on nerve damage and memory, but because of the potency of most of the ingredients, he could not take it regularly. It could be prescribed much in the way that anti-biotics were… in steady doses for a period of time after the Curse was cast. The nurse, apparently, felt he was ready for another dose, and from the ever-brightening light of the sky, Severus agreed with her.

"Ah, you're awake," the nurse appeared as if she had been summoned by his thoughts.

He sneered at her and stood, and made a point of flashing his ring-less finger at her, "I've rested—now give me the ring."

She opened her mouth, hesitated, then snapped it shut and nodded. In one swift motion, she slipped the ring from her finger. Rather than wait for her to walk it to him, he summoned it sharply with a flick of his wand.

The witch let it fly from her fingers and watched him carefully as it floated away from her. Before it had crossed the distance between them, the ring instantly enlarged, and once it had happened upon its true owner, he lifted his finger and it slipped itself neatly on.

All at once, he felt the castle respond to him—the sound of the staircases and the portraits and the ghosts that were tied to its magic resonated somewhere within him… perhaps his heart, or as Miss Granger believed, his soul. Severus felt calmer instantly… and the nurse must have noticed, because her eyes softened and she looked away.

Severus had half a mind to hex her, regardless of the peace of mind the returned ring had brought him, but thought better of it. He was free, after all, and there was work to be done.

"Good riddance," he snapped to the nurse as he left the hospital wing, and then, very narrowly, sidestepped before he ran directly into Miss Granger, who was not paying attention to where she was going but dazing off towards the gossiping portraits that often harried Severus whenever he visited the hospital wing.

They peered out from their frames at the odd pair and he glared at them darkly.

"Oh, hello, Professor," She said in surprise. She stepped backwards away from him, as if she had been burned, despite the fact that they had not touched. He noticed that she was pale, again, her golden skin a shade lighter than it had been the day before. Her eyes, too, seemed red-rimmed… not from crying, but from lack of sleep.

And they averted from his gaze far too quickly than was comfortable.

"Miss Granger," he replied briskly—he wanted nothing more than to return to his dungeon, or perhaps make a brisk round about the lake… he remembered his dream and decided, however, that that was not the best of ideas, considering the way he had dreamt about the girl who was now standing before him.

"I was actually looking for you sir—"

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, "In the hospital wing? Why would you look for me there, Miss Granger?"

She wiped her face of emotion—clearly she was lying—and she was hiding something from him, "Well—"

It was tempting to pluck her thoughts from where they waited. He was just tired enough that he considered it for a long time… and then a tremor struck through his shoulders, causing him to jerk wildly.

 _Bloody useless potion,_ he decided.

Or perhaps, his body was finally becoming immune.

The shrewd girl followed the ripple in his body and then looked up at him with wide eyes. He was too distracted to take advantage of the moment.

"Don't forget our bargain so easily, Miss Granger," he interrupted when she lowered her gaze.

"Professor, I—" she began to reason, with a tight expression he had seen her wear when she was bargaining with Potter or Weasley.

That would not do, "If it was no clear before, it will soon be very apparent how heavily your recovery will rely on my assistance—"

"Severus, leave the poor girl alone," The blasted mediwitch appeared, "She came looking for you in the hospital wing because she has not received her potions!"

Severus paused, then waved a hand—the potions appeared, hovering in front of Miss Granger. He allowed her a moment to gather them in her sight, before he released the spell. She struggled to capture them in her curled arms, but he did not wait to watch.

"Wait—"

He paused, but did not turn.

"Will… will we have lessons today… sir?" She seemed meeker than usual… tired. He ignored the surge of guilt that burned in his throat, thinking of how tired his mother had been at the end, and knowing that she perhaps was suffering the same.

 _It's not always about you, Severus_ , he reasoned.

In fact, it was never about him.

"Tomorrow."

"Yes, sir. Of course."

And then he was sweeping down the corridor, wondering how he was going to purge his mind of the vision of her sunkissed face, and now her sad, unmotivated eyes, when he was already struggling to relieve his memories of the bloody melody of her magic. Luckily, there was distraction enough offered by the castle, whose walls thrummed around him in tandem with the throbbing in his back. It was a welcome, familiar feeling that he admitted he would miss once he was gone.

The only thought left to worry him was: where the bloody hell was Albus?

·

The next day, Hermione woke with a groan and a curse. Her head was pounding and she was so thirsty she could have drunk the whole black lake in a single swig. When she managed to gather a cup of it from the loo, she found herself wincing in pain. The scratchiness of her throat was enhanced with every gulp.

She was ill—on top of everything else, she had a cold! How bloody perfect, she thought as she showered and prepared for the day. Each potion burned to swallow, but she took them, and headed to the Great Hall where she ate alone. Eventually, she found herself returning to the Gryffindor Common Room, where she huddled in front of the fire with as many books on magical theory she could find in the library. None of them, however, were helpful.

By the time the lesson arrived, she was in a right mood, but she could not show it in front of Professor Snape.

The potions master was broody the entire lesson, Hermione noted, which only fueled her own irritation. Their sessions proceeded in a fashion more akin to a potion's class than the previous Occlumency sessions she had endured beneath him. His presence was overbearing—tense, strict, wary. She imagined meeting with the dark lord could do that to a person, although she refused to allow such thoughts to pervade her mind while in his presence.

No, she could not reveal those thoughts or the memories of a particular house elf and a night spent wishing for the potions master to return, praying that he was not dead, unless she wanted to forfeit her magic.

"Clear your mind," he snapped her from her reverie.

She did… or tried, at least. Her head felt so heavy and dull—it was a cold, she knew from the froggy feeling her throat and her cotton-filled ears. Because of her lack of magic, her skin was icy, conflicting with the burning she typically felt when dealing with a mild illness of this sort. Although she hoped it would not persist, she briefly remembered sitting at the balcony for as long as she had and knew if she did suffer from a cold, it would be her own fault.

"Sit up straight, Miss Granger," he briskly instructed, "Balance is imperative to Occlumency… if you do not have the grace to command your posture, then you surely will be unable to command your mind."

His voice, once soothing, echoed against her brain, captured in the slight haze she had slipped into with Occlumency.

"Yes, sir," she answered, but the words were so loud in her own head that the Divide slipped away from her. Irritated, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"You spent far too long in the Divide the first time. Tell me, Miss Granger, what use of you will you be to Potter if you have disappeared into your own head... if you cannot find your magic?"

"None, Professor Snape," she answered with gritted teeth, trying to hide the heavy swallow against her scratchy throat.

"Then get on with it," he urged with a scowl, "Quit wasting my time and _inflect_."

He did not distract himself with papers and notes this time… no, he hovered over her like a shadow, barely a breath away from her. When she closed her eyes, he snapped his fingers, drawing her to look at him once more. She craned her neck to look up at him, trailing her eyes over his sharp features and noting that although he was still sickly looking, he was slightly more rested than he had been.

Thankfully, she found enough sense to spare herself further misery and did not look him in the eyes.

"No. You must be able to breach the Divide quicker than that, Miss Granger. Should your magic escape you, you be able to find it and control while in the company of others, without detection, and in moments."

"But—"

His glare silenced her.

She held her tongue, this time, but glared away from his face. She glanced around the office, noting the slimy and grimy potions ingredients he put on display.

"Read me the labels, Miss Granger."

"Sir?"

"The potions, Miss Granger. Any of them."

She cleared her throat, swallowed, then began, "Burning Bitterroot Balm, Chelidonium Miniscula, Deflating Draught, Death-Cap Draught…"

With his eyes upon her, she tried to slip into her mind. There was no door, no entrance, but she could feel a tingling in her body as she began to reach for the part of herself that had once been hidden. The solitude it offered seemed frightening, this time, as she was still very much aware of the world around her. Snape was standing in her peripheral, observing closely, and her eyes were open on the bottles and vials. As she trailed the labels with her eyes, she recited the recipes to herself.

"Miss Granger," he growled.

She struggled to keep her eyes on the vials, but surged forward in her seat, gripping the arms of the chair and squirming slightly to stay straight and focused, "Fatiguing Infusion, Jawbind Potion, Mouth-itching Antidote…"

She gripped her fists and for a moment her eyes fluttered closed. Before he could correct her, they flew open and she spoke clearly.

"…Shrinking Solution..."

 _Relax… listen. Listen._

She unclenched her fists and with her eyes open, she found herself drifting, once more, in that strange place of nothingness and quiet.

The Divide melted around her—black water that coated every inch of her skin. It did not remain. For but a moment, she was, strangely, both in her own mind and sitting before Professor Snape, her eyes trailing across the vials.

Her voice seemed stranger then, quieter, as she spoke, "Murtlap Essence."

For an instant, she was content to gaze upon the vial, ignorant of his presence and her own existence.

 _Snap._

The concentration she had managed shattered when he clapped both palms flat against the desk. Hermione jolted awake.

"Again."

Although she wanted to curse him, she didn't. She narrowed her eyes at the rows of potions behind him, and began again.

"Burning Bitterroot Balm…"

·

Her magic did not reveal itself, no matter how hard she searched, and the headmaster did not return, either.

After she and Professor Snape exercised her control over inflection, she was given permission to explore the depths of her mind with him as her "escort". He did not accompany her—no, that was far too invasive, but he remained to monitor her progress and her magic as she did so, to make certain she did not push herself too far. They moved on from his office to the potions classroom, where he brewed while she inflected, as it was more practical for him to work there as there were no marks left to be made.

The smell of the classroom was soothing to her, full of spice and brimstone and smoke. It was far more familiar than the potion master's office, and she was able to concentrate far better while sitting at her typical bench than in the stiff armed chair.

It was at the bench in the potions classroom that she experienced her first encounter with one of the faces. It came in the form of a past-version of herself, two days after Professor Snape had left and returned to the castle.

While the potions master tended to a half-dozen batches of burn paste, his pupil was facing a younger version of herself. This Hermione Granger was eager to learn magic, eager for approval… bushy-haired, buck-toothed, hand-waving Granger, who smiled and looked at the world with hope, even after all she had endured.

"What are you looking for?" She asked as Hermione was walking through the rows of books of the library she had imagined, to make sense of the wild place that was her own head. The girl had been hiding there, from the boys who teased her, wishing they could see that she only wanted to help them.

"My… our magic," she had replied nonchalantly, hoping her bluntness would appeal to the logical side of this young witch.

"You lost our magic?" The girl said with a disapproving shake of her head, "How amateur."

"Yes," Hermione found herself replying, "Will you help me find it?"

The girl watched her with narrowed eyes, then shook her head.

"Please, I have to find it..."

The girl shook her head and opened her mouth to argue. Instead, amber eyes widened in fear and her mouth gaped open. After a sobbing whimper, she turned from her older self and ran.

When Hermione turned to face whatever it was that frightened her, she found the troll from her first year, risen to a great height and wielding the heavy club that she had darted away from more times than she hoped to remember. With it he struck the nearest stack of books—sending them tumbling around her in a shower of split bindings and torn parchment.

When she reached for her wand to rescue them and to deflect the club from harming her, she cursed to find herself without it-even here, she was useless.

What chance did she stand against a twelve-foot troll without magic? What chance did she stand without Ron and Harry beside her?

She jumped out of the way, narrowly escaping the club. Her vision flashed to her first year, when the plaster and marble were sent scattering around her, when she truly had felt that she was going to die too young.

And then the troll was gone, and she was alone, crying in the loo. She was friendless, magicless, just like the girl who had run from the troll rather than fight it. Rather than face the shame, she pushed out of the inflection and curled into herself.

Professor Snape ignored the tears that were streaming down her face and demanded that she repeat the last potion she had recited.

"… Shrinking Solution," she managed to choke.

He flicked his wand, sending the half-dozen stirrers in the opposite direction and turned away from her. For a moment, she could hitch her breath without suffering his piercing gaze. She sobbed into her sleeve.

The cold was getting worse and she could feel the snot gathering in her nose. She guiltily wiped it away and avoided the cold, piercing gaze of the potions master.

"Again."

"Sir—" she began to plead at his back.

"Again, Miss Granger, or you will not return," he told her with his back to her.

She glared at the back of his head, wishing for compassion that he would never offer, but clenched her jaw and accepted that this coldness would only make her better. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and she found herself stepped instantly through the haze of black water. When she opened her eyes again, she was not standing in front of the troll, but hovering above the row of seven potions.

In another world, she recited the potions. At the same moment, she surveyed the potions the same potions master had brewed. It was the clever riddle he had designed to protect the Sorcerer's Stone.

She had, of course, slipped too deeply and her chanting halted. Professor Snape turned from his own potions to watch her with a strange expression on his face, before he turned away and went to work, allowing her privacy. The tears, at least, had stopped.

Younger Hermione was standing there, too, looking torn between two of the potions and scared beyond her years. She thought she knew which potion was right, but she was afraid. She doubted herself, as she had been taught to doubt herself despite having proved she was capable and intelligent.

She feared Harry would hate her if she failed.

She feared expulsion for breaking the rules.

She feared she would die.

They both could hear the daunting voice of her classmates, calling her names… Muggle and magical, she was an outcast.

A nobody.

A nothing.

Nobody would care if she died, would they?

Her heart went out to this young girl, who was still very much a part of her. The tears in her eyes were her own—reflections of all the insecurities she had faced for so long.

"You're the brightest witch of your age," she called.

The girl jumped, "What?"

"You're the brightest witch of your age," she said, "You know which one will help Harry. I trust you. He trusts you."

The girl clenched her jaw. With one last glance over the potions, she grabbed the right one, and turned and offered it. Harry was not there, however, so instead she gave it to Hermione.

The witch gazed down at the vial, but the same fear that the girl had pushed away was now burning in her own gut. She wasn't supposed to drink this one, was she? It was Harry who drank this potion! But little Hermione had already swallowed the potion to go back and disappeared.

She turned and gazed at the black fire that burned—but it was not a flame, any longer, but a shimmering layer of water suspended in the threshold that would lead deeper into her mind.

Hermione was lifting the vial to her lips, when she felt someone jerk her shoulders.

"Enough."

As soon as he had grabbed her, she was released. Hermione shifted, slightly off balance, her head whirling as she tried to keep a sweeping Professor Snape in her line of sight.

She blinked at his back—she had been very close to something… to getting somewhere. Why had he interrupted her?

Was her magic failing her?

"Sir—"

Her heart stopped. Was she now a Squib? Had she gone too far? In her panic, she was forced into a fit of coughing.

His eyes were dark and he seemed to be almost in pain when he met her eyes. She glanced immediately at his left forearm, to which his eyes narrowed and he snatched the arm to his side. His sneer led her to believe that he was receiving a summons, but the way he hunched his back told otherwise.

 _Not her magic, but his pain!_

"Should I get Madam Pomfrey?" She managed to wheeze.

He was standing, bracing himself against the desk, looking both alarmed and calm. His eyes darted around the room, at her, before he snapped his wand towards the entrance, sealing the door with a ward of runes.

From the side, he produced a Pepper-Up potion.

"No—you will stay put," He snapped, "Do not leave this room."

"Professor, is everything—"

"Silence!"

She jerked backwards away from his snarling face.

Without another word, the dark man stepped into the Floo with a furious shout, "The Headmaster's Office!"

She blinked at the dying emerald flames, and felt fear grip her belly—Albus Dumbledore had returned, but by the shaky tone of Professor Snape's voice, she feared the worst. She had never before seen fear in his eyes, not in this way.

She paced along the stone of his office. How long would it take for the professor to return to release her?

Only time, of course, would tell.

She then sighed heavily and sunk into the chair, pondering what she would do to occupy herself while she waited.


	11. Shattered

**A/N: A new chapter, so soon? I know! I'm sorry for being so inconsistent. This chapter is short, but I think that is our problem... I looooove long chapters (writing and reading), but sometimes it keeps me from posting for long periods of time. So, here we go! Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter Eleven  
Shattered

* * *

The moment the headmaster had returned, Severus had known it.

There was no time to lecture Granger (not that any advice from him would prevent her from mayhem). Hades, there was hardly any time to waste sealing her within the dungeons… but he could not risk leaving her unprotected—if anyone had followed or coerced the headmaster (and he could only suspect as such as the magic burning through the Sigil was far from calm), the girl would need protection.

He considered returning her wand to her, but there was no guarantee that using it wouldn't immediately drain her of the barest of magic she had left. The elves would get it to her if need be—and there was no time to waste summoning them… not until he accessed the damage that had been done to the headmaster.

Granger would be safe in his wards so long as he was alive to keep them from falling… and even shortly after, the castle would hold them for him, if he was careful with the ring. The Elder would protect the children—in this case, child—of Hogwarts, and so his worries were not with Miss Granger, but on the headmaster.

His own ebony wand was wielded and ready before he had fully stepped through the hearth. He sent a brief patronus to Poppy to ask her, calmly, to remain in the Hospital Wing until he commanded it, but deflected any reply she would send in return.

As his patron doe flew from his wand, his eyes surveyed the office carefully, searching the dimness when the silvery light had gone for the trademark white beard and half-moon glasses. When he found the headmaster, he was crumpled against his desk, a blackened hand clenched upwards towards his chest, cradled against the silvery embroidered pattern of his favorite robes.

The blood drained from Severus' face—he quickly realized that there were no assassins or assailants… merely a very distressed wizard. Albus stumbled and fell to his knees, and immediately was writhing in pain at the foot of his desk. He remained clutching the wrist of his ruined arm and it was then that the spy noticed that the man was chanting under his breath continuously. Whatever magic he was using was draining, however, causing his voice to hitch ever so slightly.

In moments, he was groaning the words and desperately reaching forward, as far as his ruined arm would permit. Even as he held onto it with his other, unmaimed hand, he was also vainly reaching for something with both sets of outstretched fingers—his wand, or…

Well, Severus had no idea what he could possibly desire so desperately besides his wand, but the elegant Alder wand was tucked neatly into the headmaster's ropey belt… This realization was enough to distract the potions master from his initial shock and lead him forward.

Grimacing, Severus approached cautiously with his palms upraised.

"Albus," the potions master alerted him to his presence gently, fearing the man would strike him in the frenzied state he was in. The headmaster was not well—that was very clear.

The dazed wizard did not halt his squirming or chanting, but he did acknowledge him with a sharp turn of his eyes. Even as the silvery blue squinted over his crooked half-moon spectacles, his chants continued, hushed, dull. Obviously, he was losing strength, and his entire body was shaking with the effort of the magic he was casting. When Severus stepped forward, he shook his head and his were then squeezed shut. He did not look again at his pupil, his trusted spy, even when the man repeated his name twice more… because he did not want to look him in the eye and betray his thoughts or memories.

It was then that Severus recognized the smell of caustic iron. It grew more potent as he leaned towards the quivering man, careful not to touch him—this was dark, dark magic, magic that even Severus did not think himself capable of.

Severus did not have the time to be stunned and he stepped towards the headmaster purposefully, dropping to one knee and inspecting the hand which the headmaster clutched as he battled the surge of emotions in his chest. When his trained, skeptical gaze saw the ring upon the man's finger, one he had not seen the man wearing before, he knew that it was the source of Albus' agony.

The anger that had been brewing erupted. It was not an attack by Lord Voldemort, or Bellatrix, or a dark creature… no, it was none of these that had caused this tragedy. The downful of the greatest wizard alive today was the man's own foolish curiosity!

How devastatingly Gryffindor of him… to believe himself immune to dark magic… to reach towards it when he had been condescendingly pulling Severus from it for the past fifteen odd years!

Of all people, Albus Dumbledore knew better— _was_ better—than to underestimate black magic!

And if he could be tempted, then they were all doomed…

Unless Severus could spare him!

"Albus," he repeated strictly, "I need to inspect the ring."

The man nodded, barely, his chant continuing even as he slumped against the stone. His eyes opened very briefly, but they were as guarded as they had been if they were closed. Severus felt betrayal—did the man not trust him?

 _If he did not, would you be here at his side? Would he have come back to the castle, if he did not think_ you _could help him?_

Perhaps not… of all people in the Order, Severus was the most acquainted with dark magic. It was a blessing and a curse, he supposed, although at the moment it felt more like a curse. To be burdened with the headmaser's life was not anything he would ever wish for… but did that burden not earn him a semblance of trust into the secrets of the light?

Even as he inwardly strived for the man's approval, he wisely knew that even he, a Dominus Mens, was not infallible to the dark lord's legilimency. If Albus was protecting him from any knowledge, it was for his own good just as much as anyone else's.

"To whom did this ring belong to?" Severus inquired.

The man ignored him.

"Where did you find it?"

His eyes averted and he continued to chant.

Severus' frustration grew— _how can I help him if he will not aid me?_

Then Albus' breath heaved and the entire world stopped—the motion interrupted his chanting and the very obviously dying man lifted his hand as high as he could, a bare centimeter from the ground, allowing Severus to inspect the ring as he was struck with great paralysis.

"You've contained it," the wizard began to argue in disbelief, although the man's face was frozen in a gasping agony.

The headmaster shook his head, the barest of movements, so slight another man would have missed it, and the word he had failed to speak was still falling from his lips. Yes, he was containing it, but he was failing to hold the quarantine.

Severus' mind was working faster than he could keep up, repeating known curses, eliminating others, comparing more still. He stood, considered, then called out for an elf—any elf.

It was the only safe option, he decided. Although imperfect, it was the _only_ option that would prevent the man from death or madness…

For now.

"Dobby—" It was the first name he could remember of all the elves… the one with the hats who promised to protect Hermione Granger.

The elf appeared in an instant—hats and all, although Severus hardly noticed in the haze of hardened, cool determination that had settled over him.

"Go to my personal rooms. Retrieve this potion—" he pulled an image of the potion and shoved it in the direction of the elf, who grimaced when he felt the push of the wizard's mind into his own. He did not fight it, however, but nodded when he had received it, "—and bring it to me at once. Now!"

With a pop, the creature disappeared.

Severus grabbed the wizard's hand, which was already blackened and shriveling. Once the wizard had swallowed the potion, the curse would be prevented from spreading, but so long as it was not removed from the ring, it would continue to ail the headmaster. Even when it was gone, the wizard would suffer from it.

The elf appeared once more. The potions master took the golden potion, uncorked it, then pried open the headmaster's mouth. The wizard, in his frozen pain, tried to speak over the potion, and gurgled around the thick, honey-like consistency. Severus took over the enchantment he had been murmuring, carefully copying the wizard repeated healing spell word for word so that he was allowed to swallow.

It took a handful of minutes for the potion to take effect. When it did, the old wizard stopped his wheezing chants (spoken in tandem with Severus) and gasped, jolting upward. The potions master stopped speaking—the spell was useless, now that the potion was working in its stead.

"The sword," the headmaster croaked once he had caught his breath.

"The sword?" Severus replied skeptically.

Albus reached upward and although his younger counterpart would not have advised it previously, he summoned the Sword of Gryffindor to his hand wandlessly and wordlessly. The potions master leaned away when the old man lifted the sword, flinching as he half-expected the man to be striking towards himself.

Instead, however, the headmaster let the sword fall downward, slicing the ring expertly, although once the deed was done the metal fell and clattered to the ground. The sound, however, was drowned out in the most god-awful noise either men had heard in their lives. Severus, himself, had never heard a more blood-curdling scream than when the stone was split by the goblin-forged steel of Godric's relic and he found himself flinching moments afterward after the memory of it.

The destruction of the ring, however, was enough to kill the curse. Whatever had resided within was destroyed—killed—when the stone was split, and it plumed out of the ring in a cloud of black smoke that almost instantly was snuffed into non-existence.

Albus' blue eyes met Severus' black as they shared a moment of relief that the magic dispersed rather than latching on to another object. The two men were silent, minds guarded from one another, while the older one heaved and the younger one dared not breathe.

Once they had gathered their thoughts, the younger potions master allowed his employer to grasp onto his arm. Although the man was clearly still in much pain (evidence by his pale face and gasping breaths and the burning state of the ring at Severus' finger), he stood and leaned on Severus, allowing the younger professor to lead him to his desk with shuffled movements.

It was then that he realized that Dobby was waiting to be dismissed—his large, tennis-ball green eyes were trained on the headmaster, full of fear and distress… haunted by the vision of dark magic that had expelled from the split stone of the ring.

"Leave us," the potions master ordered, "Tell no one—not even the Elder. Alert Madam Pomfrey that she will need to access the headmaster's injuries."

"No," the headmaster interrupted, "Tell her nothing."

Dobby met his eyes, hesitated. He glanced between them. Severus glared at the headmaster, but did not dare defy his wishes.

"Master Snapes—" the elf began, waiting for him to be dismissed.

"Go!"

The elf shrunk into himself and at once had disappeared with a pop.

"Severus…" the headmaster moaned in apology. The blasted phoenix did nothing to assist him, but it did drift gracefully from its perch to sit at the right hand of the headmaster. After a moment, he trilled and bowed his head, laying it against the dying hand of the wizard. No tears fell… they could not heal the Curse.

The song was strangely soothing, but Severus fought the eerie calm that descended. He wanted to feel the anger—else he would succumb to darker emotions.

"I will be fine—"

"Don't," the potions master snapped. He ignored the man's pleas as he shoved back the sleeve of his spangled robes to gaze upon the gnarled, ruined flesh of his hand. The curse was, for now, contained by the potion he had fed him. He would need to brew more at once—the ingredients came at a heady price, but he would spare them himself if need be. They would, perhaps, need to be purchased in Knockturn Alley, as he knew many of them were controlled and regulated by the ministry as an endangered species.

 _Bugger the engendered species,_ he decided. The headmaster's life was more precious.

But it was now a life destined to end far earlier than he could ever have anticipated.

"There is still hope," the old man said, as if reading his thoughts.

" _Don't_ ," Severus echoed, tracing his fingers to test the flesh. It molded against his touch and the old man flinched in response.

He did not apologize—no, he would not apologize. In fact, he could barely contain his anger, his despair… his form of apology would be not hexing the man further. He deserved it… he deserved it for putting his life into the potions master's hands, knowing that saving him would lead to a much hastier, nastier death than he had hoped for.

But the curse had been cast if it had not disappeared when the object was destroyed, then it would not be removed ever. Whatever magic that had been cast was great enough that it persisted beyond the existence of the shell where it had been protected…

He did not dare give it a name, although he had an inkling to what it had been and who it had belonged to. For his own sake and for Potter's, he did not spare it another second of thought.

With his demeanor dark and clouded, he stepped back from the headmaster, to turn away from him, unless the man see his face contort into emotions he did not care to share for any wizard, let alone one he respected as greatly as he did Albus Dumbledore. Although he argued with the fool, he had not forgotten that it was he who had spared him a second chance.

It had come with a price, but it was more than he had ever deserved… more than he would ever be able to repay.

"Why, why did you put on that ring?" He managed after a long moment of gathering his wits and clenching his fists. When he turned to gaze at the headmaster with a tight, inexpressive look, he sighed, "It carries a curse, surely you realized that… why even touch it?"

"I… was a fool. Sorely tempted…" The headmaster answered, and his eyes were distant as he spoke, carrying ghosts that made his spy think about the beautiful Lily Evans that haunted his own memories.

Perhaps the white wizard wasn't as pure as he had thought him to be. Severus pondered the notion—either way, what did it matter? They were doomed.

The vision of his own ailing, wasting mother made his hands stiffen. Albus' death could be far worse...

"Albus…" Severus interrupted, fighting the urge to bellow, to scream, to shout, to rage—he trembled from the effort, "Albus, I am no healer. I _cannot_ fix this."

"I know," the headmaster replied, "I know. But I can trust no one else. You must bear this burden alone, and for that I am sorry. Severus, there is still hope—"

"Spare me the sunshine and optimism!" The potions master spat, standing abruptly and storming away, his robes swirling around him as his thoughts boiled into fury, "You have months-a year, at best, and you think that is enough time to combat the dark lord? The Order will crumble without you."

"The Order will look to whomever I choose to replace me... and you will ensure that my wishes are seen to."

What hope Severus had clung to that they could win this war dissolved as he stared down at the heap of a man who was supposed to lead them into victory. Whether or not he could save Granger, spare Malfoy, or protect Potter seemed quite impossible now that he knew Albus Dumbledore was dying.

If he could not manage to prevent the latter, what hope did he have to achieve the former?

"The Order will shun me. I will be forced back to the foot of the dark lord, completely. He will expect nothing less."

The man's eyes were dark, but sad. He did not disagree.

"Severus…"

The potions master winced at the sound of his name, spoken like a plea from the headmaster. He did not turn around. He glared forward, towards the rows of headmasters who peered down at him, some glaring and others questioning.

Phineas Nigellus Black looked sobered for the first time in his portrait's life… Severus scowled at him, but the Slytherin did not return the expression.

"Headmaster," he replied in a dark, desperate tone, barely a whisper, "What will happen to Hogwarts?"

Albus Dumbledore was silent. When Seveurs turned around, he was leaning over his desk, glaring down at the gnarled hand and the shattered ring and looking pensive, but hardly devastated.

When he felt the man's glaring gaze, he lifted his own and looked over his half-moon glasses at the potions master, then smiled, "Many things that we did not expect, that I had hoped to avoid, but will be necessary to our victory…"

Severus glowered at the lack of seriousness, but the headmaster serenely continued, "… but fear not, Severus. All will be well."

With that, a thousand threads that held Severus' carefully constructed psyche together snapped. The grief he felt over the potential loss of this man, the anxiety the castle had channeled to him through the ring, the anger he felt at the world which had dumped him into this body, this life without remorse began to spill from him in hot, heavy, heaving waves.

The headmaster looked on calmly when he grabbed his wand and lifted it, intent to blow up the nearest object, which could very well have been the wizard in front of him. The spell never came, as even as he let himself live the fury, as it bubbled in his hand and magic and heart, he feared what the old man would think of him if he saw it… if he saw who he really was: an angry, bitter man, who ached for a paradise he could never have.

The mask he wore was slipping, revealing the bleeding heart he never wanted to reveal, but he could not let anyone see who he was—what he was underneath: weak, broken, alone. Not even Albus could know.

With a great roar, he dropped his wand and headed towards the Floo, leaving the headmaster to his own and caring little that he would be suffering alone. In two furious strides and with a large handful of powder, he had disappeared into emerald flames. When he emerged in the safety of his office, his magic erupted in short, untamed bursts, and he let it consume him and all of his grief.

·

When the potions master was gone, Hermione was decidedly against continuing inflection, although one might have argued that it would have calmed her nerves. With agitated movements, she trailed along the six cauldrons at the head of the classroom, even as her eyes drifted towards the warded door nervously… what mayhem could possibly wait outside them for her?

What could possibly frighten Professor Snape to lock her away in the dungeon? She knew he had a fear of werewolves—that much was evident in the way he had tensed before facing one in her third year. This was not an irrational fear… and one he had handled quite nicely if she remembered correctly. She had fared far worse.

Of course, it was unlikely that there was a werewolf—the moon had not yet risen and it was not even close to a full cycle. If not the lycanthropes, then perhaps there were other intruders at Hogwarts… could there be Death Eaters, ones besides the spy himself?

The captive Gryffindor witch huffed out an annoyed breath—she wouldn't have had to wonder if he had spared her an inkling of what was going on. Professor Snape could have at least given her a warning, a clue to what was going on, so she could prepare herself… so she wouldn't be completely in the dark.

After a period of pacing, she eyed the half-dozen unfinished burn-paste cauldrons uneasily from a perch at the center before them. Professor Snape had left nearly a half-hour before, but the potions were unruined—they were nearly the same state as he had left them. On closer inspection, she realized they were frozen, or at least almost (the bubbles, if she stared long and hard, moved ever so slightly). Although she had not seen him do anything to them, they were literally suspended—stalled—in time… it was peculiar magic that she had not seen before, that she had never read about.

She dared not ruin it, unless she wanted to suffer an explosion… her hands remained at her sides, although she wondered if the magic would cancel if she were to get too close.

Something in her mind clicked as she glared at the potions, wondering what it would take to bring them back to life… what would it take to make them potent rather than viable.

The Floo was blocked by the wards Professor Snape had cast, but if they failed, she could use it to get to the headmaster's office—or the infirmary. Merlin forbid, she could Floo to the Great Hall, and from there run for the Forbidden Forest—where she could lure a thestral and fly. The idea made her nauseous, but it was a reasonable plan… in the face of death, she supposed flying was not as terrible, and she rather it be a thestral than a broom.

But if the wards fell, then she would have had a need to use the Floo… meaning she would need a distraction to get there before her attackers could pursue her.

As she crouched down in front of the cauldrons, she carefully inspected the magical flame that was suspended by Snape's magic. It was some sort of time-dilating spell… she was positive it would be disturbed by movement (by stirring, or an added ingredient?) or with a counter-spell, which she did not know. Like with any other potion, with the wrong mixture of ingredients, all six would be potentially unstable…

Her mind led her feet to the store-room, which to her delight was unlocked. The rush she felt when the latch came unhinged was short-lived… the state of depletion was depressing. Although she had not considered the auxiliary effects of Umbridge's reign as High Inquisitor besides the safety of the students and staff, she realized that it must have been her doing that the stores were so barren. The ingredients had always been well-stocked—the potions master was a meticulous creature, if he was anything…

Hermione frowned at a handful of labels, then gathered a few carefully chosen half-empty and nearly-empty jars and brought them to the classroom. She placed each along the nearest bench so that they would be easily accessible to her, then returned to her perch at her typical table, to ponder her course of action.

Waiting, however, had never suited her. She fidgeted in her seat for about five minutes, then stood up and began to pace, her thoughts following suit with her frenzied steps.

If there truly were Death Eaters, then Professor Snape was probably fighting them at this moment and he was probably outnumbered. The only other capable wizard in the castle was Madam Pomfrey… and if she was injured, then they would all be doomed. Hermione could not perform healing magic, or any magic at all, to be specific… not without a wand and not in her state of ability.

He would be alone, unless the headmaster, however, had returned… she assumed he had, hence the potion master's haste...

Unless it was Death Eaters, and he was protecting his cover and hoped to head the intruders off. If that were the case, then he was not outnumbered—but rather he was one of the enemies. She thought of the warning he had issued her, and the questions he had asked…

 _What makes you think I would spare you?_

She remembered her answer… and her promise. Still, the clenching of her gut at having to face Death Eaters—and him amongst them—was not pleasant.

She hoped it was not intruders, then felt guilty for such careless wishes.

The only other possibility was that the headmaster was dead or injured… she could imagine that would be the only reason the potions master would look so grave. If there was one person who Severus Snape visibly respected, it was Albus Dumbledore… with a dawning realization, Hermione rolled her eyes at herself. Here she was plotting against unknown intruders, and that wasn't nearly the case. It was very obviously the health of the headmaster that had worried him.

Professor Snape would not be as afraid as he had been in the face of Death Eaters… he dealt with them every day, or more frequently than any other. Knowing it to be the case made Hermione feel strangely—she almost would have preferred a Death Eater raid to the idea that something had happened to the headmaster. She was not close to the man, but he was familiar and trusted.

The witch settled against the table once more, pondering the potions, wondering about what could have happened. If he were lost… well, she couldn't imagine a Hogwarts without him. Harry, especially, would be devastated. He felt some sort of kindred connection to the man—and his absence in his life in the past year had caused her best friend a peculiar kind of distress. If he were to lose him in death, would Harry be able to stand it?

Without Albus Dumbledore to guide him—to guide them all—could Wizarding Britain go on?

 _Of course they can_ , a voice reasoned bossily. After all, the headmaster was a powerful wizard, but he was merely a figurehead—people looked to him for guidance, for reassurance, but the power was always in the hands of the many… at least, that was how she had always been taught. If there was enough people who felt strongly enough, anything could be possible…

Even defeating Lord Voldemort.

"Here, here," she cheered bitterly, before doubling over with a sneeze.

She miserably glanced towards the steaming bottle of Pepper-Up and pondered it. She vainly hoped that she was right about Professor Dumbledore, because she would hate to have steam pouring from her nose and ears while running away from—

 _CRASH!_

The bottle slipped right through her fingers and towards the ground. The stopper remained in her left hand, but the liquid spilt over the cobble, filling in the cracks and steaming the entire way. Hermione watched the red spread with a dazed expression, as her body had frozen with fear.

 _Icy-cold…_

She shivered at the thought and tried to focus on remaining calm. If she let her panic consume her, then…

Well, then she would have not learned any lesson at all.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned around and scooped up the ingredients. Her eyes were trained on the door of the potions classroom, waiting for the wards to shatter and for the intruders to burst through.

In her fingers she held a jar of gorgonophone shavings (taken from the gorgonophone mushroom which was commonly used in petrifying agents). It would react violently with the thickening rat bile used in the burn-paste solution… if she remembered correctly from her reading, the reaction would not be instantaneous, but slow and determined.

With bated breath, she glared at the door. The wards did not tremble in the slightest, but held.

 _Like the blanket_ , she thought to herself.

The breath she had been holding expelled nervously… it was a strange thought, but it was true. Even now, it was Professor Snape's wards which protected her—not so different from the ones he had used during their first Occlumency lesson.

"You're being silly," she told herself in a whisper, "There are no Death Eaters—it was the headmaster."

 _Then why are you preparing a bomb?_

"Better safe than sorry?"

She grimaced down at the jar she was holding—it trembled. Or rather, her hand was trembling. If she was not careful, she would ruin the solution without intending to.

Rather than risk it, she stepped away from the potions.

When she heard another clatter from somewhere beyond the classroom, she tensed. Her nerves began to tighten again. There was a panic in her chest and she began to feel a phantom pain around her scar. Without realizing it, she had tugged the hem of her shirt down and began to scratch at it absently.

What if the Death Eaters came and she reacted—what if her magic burnt her from the inside out again?

That was enough to send her into a flurry. Her head, full of cotton already, began to feel heavy and dull and when she took a step she slipped over the spilled Pepper-Up potion. The scream was out of her throat before she knew it.

Immediately, she regretted it. She managed to catch herself and darted around the puddle of steaming red to safety. Her eyes darted from the door—the sounds of crashing beyond had stopped—to the floor, then to the potions.

The wards began to warble.

 _Oh, Merlin!_

She was a fool. In her haste to reach for the gorgonophone shavings she ran into the side of the bench—causing her to curse loudly. She could hear the door opening behind her, flying open with a great force… perhaps a _Bombarda_ ….

Desperately, she strained over the surface of the bench to grab the intended ingredients, wincing as her still bruised flesh met the solid surface of the wooden surface.

She did not take the time to turn around to face her attacker even when she felt them lift their wands. Instead, she lifted the jar, sending the shavings soaring through the air. Some of them would find their mark and she would already be diving behind the professor's desk for cover.

Unfortunately, however, she only managed to slip around the desk when she heard a familiar voice—

"Miss Granger, what on earth are you doing?"

 _"Fuck_ ," she immediately knew that she was wrong—it was not Death Eaters… it was Snape!

"Excuse me?" He voiced sternly.

The shavings, she now noticed, were suspended in the air as they flew towards the cauldrons. A few sizzled as they had made contact with the flames… the others floated harmlessly away from the steaming potions.

"Professor—" she began to reason, but found she had no excuse that would make sense to him… at least, none that wouldn't be completely embarrassing.

Hermione spun on her heel to face him, but only managed to lose her balance when a sneeze burst through her, caught only narrowly by her raised arms. She stumbled from the force, then caught herself on the bench behind her… and unfortunately, in her clumsiness, sent the rest of the jars flying over the edge and to the ground. The sound of shattering glass was enough to leave her clenching with fear... of course, she had picked the few vials whose protective charms had not held.

She squeezed her eyes closed, preparing for the biting verbal onslaught. Humiliation wracked over her entire body, sending her cringing further when the man was silent. A quiet Snape was just as deadly as a lecturing one—

"Are you alright?"

 _Wait, what?_

She hastily peeked through her lashes, assessing the situation. Dark eyes were evaluating her with a slightly expression of concern. She nodded absently, hoping he would look away… he didn't. His gaze remained upon her, steady and dark and all-consuming.

Thankfully, he did not move towards her—in fact, he seemed rather hesitant to. She did not blame him… she was a chain reaction of nerves at the moment and it was best for them both that he kept his distance.

Once her breathing was steadied, her gaze flew towards the mess she had made with the Pepper-Up, then behind her to the scattered ingredients amidst shattered glass. The potions were now being brought to a boil—lending the burn-paste to grow frothy—far frothier than was necessary for a burn-paste.

She winced when she assessed the damage—spills, broken glass, ruined potions—and turned to meet the potions master's gaze once more.

His face was white—paler than normal. His hair was… wild, or at least, wilder than she had ever seen it. It was swept away from his face, as if he had run his fingers roughly through it. His robes were not present on his person—but the frock coat remained, ever present, but it appeared to be disheveled, as if he had been… rolling around? Duelling?

Crying?

His eyes, however, were not red... that was a ridiculous thought, she decided.

"Typical," he said silkily, accosting her with a strange smirk that she had never seen him wear before.

When she realized she was staring at his chest and the wrinkled wool, she lifted her gaze and blushed, "I… well, I…"

His dark eyes made the same trail across the classroom, from the Pepper-Up to the boiling potions, "I admit I expected far worse."

If it were any other teacher, she might have laughed. She fought the urge, however, too stunned to realize that he was making a joke. Her eyes remained on his jaw, which she noticed was slacker than usual. Surprisingly, he was not as tense as he typically was—and his eyes were not nearly as composed. Beyond them, she thought, for a moment, she could see a man beneath the reflective black surfaces… the man beneath the mask. He was haunted and sad... broken.

They were flat in moments, stealing him away from her once more—leaving her wanting very much for them to return.

"Our lesson is over. Leave." His voice was brisk, commanding, unaccommodating… _Snape._

"Yes, professor," she answered, clearing her throat.

She shuffled around the spilled Pepper-Up as he waved his wand—vanishing the ruined potions and sending the salvageable ingredients to lay in piles along the tables. They were very small piles, she acknowledged with a begrudging shrug.

When she approached the doorway, she remembered her deduction… the headmaster! What had become of him?

"Professor…"

He did not interrupt her as she expected him to. His movements were heavy and tired—weary, she realized… defeated. When he headed towards the bench where the ingredients were piled, his long fingers braced against the wood as if to steady himself. He glared ahead, towards the store room whose door was cracked open—away from her.

She knew it could not be good, if he were being affected in such a way… Oh Merlin, it couldn't be, could it?

"Is… is the headmaster alright?"

His eyes sharpened towards her, keen and dark, "Why wouldn't he be?"

She blinked—confused. Why else would he have locked her away?

"I… well, I just—he…"

"He… what, Miss Granger?"

"Er… he's a colleague of yours."

"How astute of you, Miss Granger. Imagine what others could deduce with such keen observations."

She swallowed her reply. Instead, she grimaced and said, "I'm sorry."

He scowled at her and made a waving motion with his hand. With that, she drifted out of the classroom, into the corridor.

When the heavy door slammed closed behind her, she flinched… then she shook her head, angry with herself for not being accustomed to being shoved out of his classroom like an unwanted stray cat. Irritated both with him and herself, she stormed down the corridor, but found herself stopping as she nearly passed his office door…

Or what remained of his office door. The wood was shattered—splintered into shreds that crowded the inside of his office. Although she knew better, she stepped towards the wreckage… her heart grew heavy when she saw the ruins that lay within: the shattered glass she had left in the classroom was hardly comparable to the amount he had left in his own furious wake. Nearly every object that had been on display had been thrown across the room, leaving the office in the same sort of disarray she expected a tornado would leave. It was not by accident-no this was purposeful... full of rage and grief.

With a hasty glance backwards, towards the closed classroom door, she turned away and headed down the corridor, her arms wrapped around herself. The emotions she felt made her eyes water and in moments she was running for the tower—the headmaster was alive, or else Snape would have told her, but something terrible had happened to him, or to someone else.

Whatever it was, she couldn't imagine it would mean anything good for their effort, and the lack of hopelessness she had begun to feel grew far greater at the notion. The fear that she felt at the anger that Snape had displayed, while not in her presence, made her feel slightly uneasy... as if she had underestimated him.

What scared her more was that her feelings for him had not changed: she trusted him with her life, still, and that made very little sense to her, knowing now what he was capable of.


	12. Changing Winds

**A/N: Here we are again... enjoy! I'm really really proud of how this chapter developed. Please review if you get a chance and let me know what you think of it. Thanks!**

* * *

Chapter Twelve  
 _Changing Winds_

* * *

"Good morning, dear."

"Good morning, Madam Pomfrey."

Amber eyes averted from the nurse's steel green gaze—Poppy knew this look well: it was the expression one wore when they were trying very hard not to reveal something they desperately wanted to share. Miss Granger, being the lioness that she was, had discovered something she should not have and it was now weighing heavily on her mind… and she had come to Poppy for advice. But the Gryffindor courage seemed to disappear once she stepped through the door of the hospital and she now hung in the threshold looking quite unable to make the final leap completely within.

Regretfully, while Poppy sympathized with the girl's curiosity, it was in neither of their best interests to get involved in the headmaster's affairs. Albus, as much as his aloofness annoyed her, was prepared for every possible outcome of every possible situation—or so she had come to believe in the past decades she had worked under him. Trying to pry information out of him was impossible and infuriating—she had learned long ago it was best if she left him to his own devices and, thus far, he had come out the other end unscathed many a time.

Be that as it may, the news she had received yesterday on his return was unsettling and had led her immediately to his door. Being locked in her infirmary by castle wards she could not dispel was not something she was used to—and being released not long after with a half-explanation by a house elf was equally as unusual.

But Albus had welcomed her into his office without so much as a twitch or a frown and had lucidly thanked her to checking on him so promptly after his arrival. He explained that he had suffered a minor complication—a curse—but that Severus had done what he could to mend him.

She could tell from looking at him that he was worse off than he led on, but she had refrained from pressing farther than demanding that he rest and take the day off from business. He would, hopefully, come to her when she was needed and if he felt it was necessary.

After all, there was not much more she could say to the most powerful wizard in the country. He would do what he wished to do, and she could not stop him— _that,_ she had accepted long ago. Thankfully, he was more courteous to her medical advice then Severus, and she hoped he had at least taken her advice for a few hours.

But Poppy, as a nurse, knew dying was the way of life, and that he could not live forever, as much as many would hope he would, simply so they could live their lives a little easier. While there were precious many things depending on that man—the hundreds of children who studied at Hogwarts chief among the lot—and who relied on his steadfast, wise nature, it was a fate that even he could not escape. She reasoned that he was an old man and that this was bound to happen sometime and someway, but she also knew his death would be difficult given the time frame. Thankfully, it was not yet upon them, or so she naively could believe.

With a wry smile, she gestured for the hovering patient to enter the hospital wing completely… time was against them and she had much to do to prepare herself and this young witch for its trials.

Once the young witch was no longer hovering in the threshold, she began to speak again, "It's been a few days since you were released—how are you feeling?"

"I am well, thank you."

"And you have received your potions this morning?"

She nodded, then glanced to her feet. It was unlike her to be timid, but she seemed decidedly unsure… almost afraid. Was it that frightening? Was it something worse... had she had another episode? Had she finally realized what a mistake it was to scar herself so permanently?

"Is there something you wish to talk about?" The nurse offered nervously.

Hermione snapped her gaze to hers, then looked hurriedly away. She considered the thought for a long time, before she rounded her shoulders and shook her head.

"I take it you've discovered something about the headmaster," Poppy interjected, hoping that it was nothing more than curiosity which hung over the girl's head.

The girl straightened slightly, her chin perking upwards defiantly, prepared to defend her actions—

 _Ah._

The nurse shook her head to ward off any protest she could offer and muttered loudly, "Gryffindors."

After she realized she would not be chastised further, Hermione asked, "Is he… is he alive?"

Poppy softened slightly, "I have seen him just last night—he's very much alive. He is slightly disfigured... but he is not in any intense pain, that I can tell. It was merely a curse, banished with the help of Professor Snape."

"Oh..." the witch answered, but she seemed unconvinced. She knew the effects that curses could have, both large and small. She had experienced it herself.

As her mind whirled within her bushy head, Poppy looked her up and down with a trained eye—her skin, normally golden and olive, was paler and she looked as if she had not slept… her hair was tangled up into a wild pony-tail and her amber eyes were shadowed. While the news about the headmaster would have shaken her, surely, the girl was a Gryffindor—she knew much more than she should.

"It's just that… well, Professor Snape was very upset," the girl murmured, before she looked away, slightly bashful, "I feared the worst."

No doubt, she was also afraid the wizard himself would rise up from the floor and berate her for speaking of him when he was not present. Still, alarms began to ring in the back of the nurse's mind...

 _Why_ , Poppy noted, _was Severus upset enough that Miss Granger would be concerned?_

"Don't worry about the headmaster," the nurse advised shrewdly, although she herself was struggling with taking her own advice, "That is my and Professor Snape's job."

Surprisingly, Hermione nodded in an accepting sort of way. Still, she seemed slightly downtrodden and when she drifted towards the window, she was round of shoulders and glum of face.

Likely, her unhealthy appearance was an effect of the aggravated effects of her loss of magic mixed with anxiety over yesterday's bizarre events. Although her patient had been in relatively high spirits since the incident, this condition would always be an uphill battle for her. She would have to push herself harder and farther than she ever had, especially when faced with situations like Albus'. There would be many injuries and deaths to come—many obstacles she would have to face, and as was her wish, she would face them alone.

Thankfully, the best cure for depression, the nurse always found, was a nice distraction, and if Hermione Granger was anything, she was a devoted worker. Distractions would come easily for her.

"Have you a lesson today?"

"Not that I know of—I doubt it."

She did raise a brow, "Your sessions with Professor Snape are not frequent?"

At that, the girl picked at the hem of her shirt and stared down at her feet. She shrugged when Poppy raised a brow, then said, "Daily, sometimes not. The sessions are very short in length, considering my magical stamina is… hindered. I can inflect, but… it's just that we haven't progressed very far, so I'm no very hopeful for a full recovery."

"Ah…" the nurse noted with a sympathizing grimace, "Small steps will cross the same distances as large leaps, my dear, given the time and patience needed to take them."

"Of course, you're right," but her voice did not hint that she believed a single word.

The nurse clucked her tongue. She would have to speak to Severus… he might not want to be near her for long periods of time, but the girl needed his help and she was obviously determined to get better. She could devote entire days to Occlumency if needed… then again, the potions master was already in a mood these days and if what she said was true—that her magical stamina would not allow it—then she trusted Severus was doing the right thing.

Of course, the decision to keep her working with potions was a sound one, she believed, and there was no better time than the present to begin—magic or not, "Do you know much about Blood-Replenishing potions, Hermione?"

The young witch snapped her gaze to the nurse's and gaped slightly. The excitement, however, to assist in the brewing of such an advanced potion was dulled when she glanced at her empty hands—still wandless. She could do nothing more but assist in the preparation of ingredients and most of the brewing, but… the final element would be wasted on her.

"I won't be much help… I haven't earned my wand back yet."

 _Earned…_ gods, that man could irk her sometimes. Poppy held her tongue, however, remembering her promise to try her hardest to be kind to him, even when he pushed her to the point of madness.

"Nonsense," the nurse argued with an encouraging, "Potions require much more than just magic and I've heard you have just the stuff I need. Besides, you will need to observe the first few batches, for safety reasons."

Hermione pondered her proposition pensively. Before she could disagree, Poppy began to speak again, "Firstly, I need you to look over this recipe."

She procured the necessary text and provided it to the younger witch. Her amber eyes trailed over the pages carefully, then briskly once more.

"I have all the ingredients—I merely need help preparing them and then you can watch over the brewing while I clean out all of these cupboards," she winked at the witch, who seemed to shrink at the notion, "I admit, I'm rather tired of chopping and slicing and de-veining without anyone to keep me company and cleaning is rather tedious, even with magic."

Hermione smiled half-heartedly—she didn't mind that part of brewing, actually… anything to keep her mind occupied was welcomed, she supposed, "If you truly are overwhelmed, then I would be happy to help. I can assist with cleaning, as well, if needed..."

"Thank you, Miss Granger, but I'd rather you kept an eye on the brewing. I'm very particular about my cleaning, you know... it's nothing against you. Now, first, let's start with the iron-rich ingredients, as they are the most vital…"

·

"Severus, how good of you to arrive so promptly to my summons."

A glare was the potion master's disgruntled response.

After a time, Albus' eyes twinkled, "You weren't terribly busy, were you?"

Severus' glare darkened. He did not reply.

The headmaster's expression, shielded by a magical glamor to make him appear healthier and barmier than ever, sobered for a time. He lifted his hand, the uncharred one, in defeat, "I apologize, Severus. I have made a mistake that I cannot take back. I understand that you are especially affected by this, but we must not dwell on that which we cannot change—"

"And, gladly, I have no wish to _speak_ any further of it. There are more important matters to discuss for the time being, are there not? And quickly, if you would... I have an inventory to return to the dungeons to complete and a run to Diagon Alley to make before sundown, if you want your dog's Wolfsbane to be brewed properly."

With that, Albus inclined his head wearily.

The potions master stiffly stood up from his seat across from the man. Fawkes, now wilting, hardly lifted his head as he did so and his master was equally lethargic—leaning heavily against the back of his chair and strategically placing his ruined hand within his sleeve. Severus dumped his memories with five purposeful swipes from his temple into the silver disk. The headmaster gazed down at them. After a moment, he appeared as if he wanted to say something meaningful.

When he looked up to speak, however, the dark spy was already sweeping away from the desk, towards his personal library, every Occlumency shield he possessed raised as high as it was capable. Albus frowned at his back, but he ignored the sensation of it.

Typically, he would accompany the headmaster in his analysis of the proceedings of his memories, but the trust that he had built for so long had been injured by anger and grief and he was not prepared to stand beside the man at all anytime soon, let alone while he reviewed the murder and torture Severus had witnessed and endured.

Annoyingly, Albus watched him for a time, before sighing and bending over the pensieve to dip his face into the silvery mist. When he emerged an hour later, he was solemn-faced: the twinkle in his eyes was gone… replaced with the cold determination of an orchestrator of war that came from watching death and ruin. Severus snapped the book he had been perusing shut and stood once more.

While the potions master gathered his memories, the headmaster spoke as he always did after he had witnessed the atrocities within his spy's mind—distant and commanding, "And the Malfoy boy? He _was_ the one who noticed Miss Granger's absence on the train?"

Severus gritted his teeth, "Yes, as you saw in the memory."

Albus' eyes narrowed, but he did not press further. No matter how much he proved to this man, he would always be the dishonorable Death Eater spy... would always be suspected of lying, of covering up the truth.

"Interesting… what motivated him to do such a thing?"

"Perhaps the punch Miss Granger proudly served him in their third year—or the mere fact that she is a Muggleborn… I did not have the chance to ask him as he was... occupied."

Albus frowned at that, "Surely, there must be something more than all that."

"Perhaps—but I doubt it."

His frown darkened considerably.

Severus knew the allure of the gifts that the dark lord offered—appeals of the flesh were tastes of heaven for young, broken-hearted and hateful boys. He and Draco were not unalike in that aspect. And the dark lord could offer him many, many things—women, glory, money… and he would not think of the consequences it would have for anyone else before he took it.

But offering information about Granger would have been a bonus in the Malfoy progeny's eyes. Albus and his flock of teachers had seen to that—they had isolated Draco from the very beginning, sealing his fate along with his father before he even had a chance to bloom. And although she had not intended it, Granger had been the match to light the flame-the straw that broke the camel's back. The beloved Muggleborn suffered his abuses, and everyone sympathized with her… to the point that she drew attention away from the attention-craving Draco.

Even Severus, had taken her side, at least in his godson's eyes. He had berated Draco time and time again to leave the girl alone—to focus on his studies and let her make a fool of herself. Typically, the boy ignored his advice, but Severus was not exactly a model of behavior where it concerned letting Gryffindors prowl the castle unscathed. He took the blame for that, but not for Draco's deep character flaws... those lied in the hands of Lucius and Narcissa, who had raised him for a life he could never live.

Either way it had come about, Draco would have offered the information eagerly and without hope for compensation from anyone. His idea of payment would come in the form of Granger suffering… as that was what was expected for him to want.

And the thought was chilling to Severus, who remembered feeling much the same about James Potter and Sirius Black when he was young, but for very different reasons... or so he had once believed. Were his reasons so different?

He hadn't had much of a choice in the matter. He had argued with himself that Draco had much more of a choice, but in the end, he realized he did not. That much was certain by the look of fear on Narcissa's face when she had caught him sneaking through the mansion after he was reported to have left. That part, he refrained from sharing with the headmaster...

"You are very certain that he is entering the ranks willingly?" Albus interrupted his thoughts. He coughed slightly and shifted uncomfortably.

"Of course he is willing," Severus sneered at his obvious weariness, far from caring at this point, "He's been bred for this since conception!"

Albus began to argue despite his grimace of pain, "You know that I disagree… his choices are the same."

Severus narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the level of the man's pain. Regardless, the headmaster would not receive his assistance, considering the lack of trust was now blatant between them, "That boy has been spoon-fed delusions of grandeur since the moment he was born—since _before_ he was born. What would you expect him to believe, having heard his father speak ill of Muggles and blood traitors, his mother of Muggleborns all his life? Would you expect him to speak out against his father, whom he looks up to as any son would?" As Severus had his father, at least when he was very small, "To stand up against the dark lord who has occupied his home, or worse, leave his mother there to fend for herself amongst rapists, murderers, and ingrates? What choice does he have, but to serve and obey? Would you have him turn his back on everything he has known his entire life for… for what? For courage? For honor?"

The potions master dropped the hand he had been using to point accusingly at Albus, "I suppose you expect every young wizard to join the Order to fight because it is the right thing to do. You forget, old man, that the world is not made simply of red and gold. Some men wish for more than honor—some men wish for glory, for knowledge," Severus sneered, "And some merely wish to escape this life unscathed."

"And some men, like you and I, wish for all of it," Albus waved a hand to dispel the brewing argument, "I am not as foolish as you believe I am, Severus. But no matter, we will agree to disagree. What is it that Tom is planning to have him do to… seal his initiation?"

"I am unsure," Severus replied… there was always a mission, a task that every Death Eater would perform before they were bestowed with such a great honor. For Severus, it was both his burning and the creation and brewing of a very powerful, potent, unforgivable potion. To this day, he had no clue what had become of it… he had not heard the dark lord's plans for it, or if he had even used it at all. Sometimes, he had nightmares that it was being saved for him—to feed to him when he was discovered a traitor.

He shivered in response.

Albus continued to pry, "Has he taken the Mark?"

Seveurs brooded silently as he decided how to answer. Inwardly, he was fuming… although it was agony to allow it, Draco _had_ accepted the Dark Mark and would be branded with it forever. The little fool had taken it so easily—as if it were an afterthought, the day after he had arrived home from break. No doubt, it was Bellatrix's doing—her _beloved_ nephew had taken it so quickly there had not even been time for Severus to intervene, meaning that she had been the voice in the dark lord's ear, urging him to allow it before the task had been completed, to ensure that it would be done and done well. Hell, he had not even been invited to the ritual, although he might have been able to make it had he accepted the invitation right away...

All the while, she was signing his death sentence. Although she feigned adoration of her sister, she was a cruel bitch… she would kill every last Death Eater if it meant she would be the right hand of their master. Shaming Lucius would seal her seat beside the dark lord, or so she believed. She had yet to figure out that no one would ever be worthy in his eyes, as he was only concerned about himself.

Severus had underestimated her, once again. He had been too consumed in dealing with Miss Granger that he had failed in his duty as a godfather to protect him from his own flesh and blood, from a woman worse than death. Now, Draco would suffer at her hand as he had many times.

Although he wanted to for Draco's sake, he could not lie to the headmaster—it would serve no other purpose, but to ease his own conscience, "Yes, he has taken the mark. I had thought it impossible for anyone under seventeen, but… the dark lord is resourceful."

Albus was unremoved.

Severus continued, "Draco seemed agitated by it, but he was not… completely indisposed, so that magic is sound. It seems the binding has surpassed the age of magical consent. It will hold."

"Did you see it, yourself?"

"I did not inspect it closely," Severus argued.

"So there is a chance..."

"No-it is the Mark."

"How can you be certain?"

Severus steeled him with a glare, to which the headmaster grimaced. The spy knew because... well, because he was a Death Eater, too. As soon as he had seen it, he had known.

Of course, Draco, when Severus had found him after being dismissed, was quite enjoying himself, surrounded in _imperiused_ whores. It was an uncomfortable experience (especially considering Severus weakened state after his torture), and thankfully one that Severus had remained undiscovered. But the Mark had been clear enough, as had Draco's smug enjoyment. For now, the Malfoy boy would reap the riches that the dark lord could offer him… but he would suffer later, and perhaps forever, if he continued down the path he was headed.

Dumbledore's eyes were sad, "Then there is little we can do. He has written his own fate."

 _As I had—as I have?_ Severus wanted to mourn aloud, but he kept his mouth tightly shut. There was no hatred in Albus' eyes, which made him feel worse, because in that moment Severus hated Draco.

Albus pitied the boy just as he pitied his star-crossed spy, and Severus hated them both for making him realize it.

"Is there anything else?" He muttered agitatedly.

The headmaster sighed dejectedly, "You have perhaps made Miss Granger's situation more complicated… she will be expected to perform as a healer in some public way. I expect you will make certain that she can achieve as such, or at the very least, _act_ the part. I fear the consequences should our ruse be discovered... for her especially."

Severus very adamantly contained his anger. It was surging in waves in his gut, in his chest, but he managed a very tight, gritty, "Do you think I do not know that?"

"I merely did not think you cared enough about her to warrant the thought," the headmaster baited.

 _Bloody Gryffindors,_ Severus cursed him. A day after nearly being cursed to death, he was trying to crack Severus' carefully crafted mask and force him to admit that he did, in fact, care. Of course, he cared! He wasn't the heartless monster that the very man in front of him was painting him to be—that he had asked him to remain, even after the grief he had felt had changed him to his core.

The wizard, even dying, was infuriating. He half-wished he was not as powerful and gifted as he was and that he was instead bed-ridden and writhing in pain. He should have let the curse run its course…

And he deserved it, too, for what he was putting Severus through… for what he would endure. Although one might think him melodramatic—it was the headmaster who was dying—it was quite apparent to him that without Albus, the children he protected would hate him more than they ever had. Without the headmaster, the Order would condemn him as they never could with Dumbledore to buffer their hatred…

Without Dumbledore, the tiny threads of honor that held his spy together would snap and shrivel.

All at once, as if he had read his thoughts, the headmaster grimly smiled at Severus.

"What?" The potions master grated after a time of pregnant silence.

"I want to apologize in advanced, Severus, but on a hopefully more positive note," The headmaster began softly, "I am pleased to inform you that you are Hogwarts' newly appointed Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor."

He pushed forward the offered contract. It was the very same which the potions master proposed every year to keep up appearances with the dark lord's wishes.

Severus gazed down at with wide, disbelieving though he had convinced himself that he did not truly want it, that it was merely an act he played to please the dark lord, when the words were spoken he felt a surge of excitement. Had he not longed for the honor to display his prowess—to teach the children properly... to lead them away from the dark arts that had tempted him by exposing its dark innards, rather than protect them from it?

"Of course, we cannot have room for any suspicion by Tom. This will abate him for now."

And just like that, the feeling of grief he had swallowed in this office the day before returned, and the joy tasted like ash in mere moments. He was being granted this positions because it was convenient for Albus… because it would further ingratiate his position into the ranks of Death Eaters, not because he had earned it.

The headmaster was preparing him to be returned fully to the dark lord—and what a sweet gift he would be for dear, old Tom… a teacher at Hogwarts who was at the command of Lord Voldemort was a dangerous, dangerous thing—and it would be as dangerous position for Severus to hold as it would put him in a precarious position within the ranks of the Death Eaters. When Hogwarts fell—when the ministry was overturned by the dark lord—who would be the first name they proposed to lead the castle?

The castle seemed to close in around him as he considered this… as if it were trying to suffocate him within the walls before he could ruin it from the inside out. He turned abruptly, unable to let himself stand still—unable to stand its rejection.

 _Think of Lily,_ a part of him urged.

Another relented... he was tired of thinking of Lily, of her cursed son. Still, his feet remain planted, and he knew he would continue to serve at the will of the headmaster until his last dying breath and likely beyond, if he could stand it.

"…pending Horace Slughorn's agreement to come out of retirement, of course," Albus added when he remained silent.

"Splendid," he sneered towards the headmaster, before he stood up and stormed for the door, "Bloody perfect."

He had nearly escaped when the man spoke.

"Severus?"

He sighed laboriously and for a moment, his mask slipped, revealing the tragic feelings he stored beneath. He remained facing the wall, unwilling to reveal them to Albus...

Nothing could be worse than having to work alongside Horace bloody Slughorn while simultaneously having to pretend to pretend to not teach his students real Defense—gods, Potter would be even more detestable than he was in potions. It was a nightmare.

Albus concluded, "You can hate me all you like, but all _will_ be well. I hope desperately that you will see that one day."

"Oh, yes… all will be well for the select _few_ who miraculously survive this cursed war," the potions master bit back, before he glided calmly down the stairs, leaving Albus to frown down at the now empty pensieve and ponder the ominous future.

·

Hermione had settled into the small potions lab hidden on the far end of the infirmary. She sat on a bench in front of the four bubbling cauldrons, flipping through the potions books Madam Pomfrey had provided her— _Brewing to Heal: An encyclopedia of recipes of every known healing antidote, balm, draught, elixir, mixture, paste, and potion_. Blood-Replenishing potions, in particular the brand Pomfrey had chosen (a medium blend, which could serve both tragic accidents and every-day use, such as in chronic cases of anemia and for treatment of menstrual complications), were obnoxious concoctions to brew as they could not endure any known stasis. If they began to boil over or failed to simmer properly, the receiver of the potion would be ailed with blood poisoning. Thus, the brewing needed to be carefully observed for the entire three hours that they were left to simmer gently over a low flame.

Dutifully, Hermione watched them from the corner of her eyes as she surveyed an interesting section of the text… _Balms: a topical agent applied to burns and abrasions use mainly to provide relief from pain and to quicken the healing process._

Did Professor Snape use a balm for his burn? Was it numbing—like Star-Grass Salve—or antiseptic, like NeoSporin and the wizarding equivalent: Burning Bitterroot Balm? Perhaps it was a mixture of the two… perhaps he had created his own, using ingredients matched specifically to treat the obviously magical burn. His wound would be treated differently than burns of a physical nature, created by heat and fire, because the magic that was used to harm him would linger, as was the nature of curses.

She wondered if he perhaps employed the assistance of Essence of Dittany to keep the ruined flesh… well, healthy as it could be. Although Dittany was used to heal skin over wounds, when strained into lower concentrations and mixed with various ingredients it could have other healing properties. She thought for certain he was using Dittany-that would explain the herby smell she loved so much.

She blushed to herself that she could recognize it for what it was.

"Fascinating," she murmured to herself, pretending to be engrossed in the recipe and not her on thoughts.

Beyond the lab, Madam Pomfrey was a storm of magic—she would not let Mr. Filch "slave away cleaning up _her_ messes" and so she was cleaning the entire wing from top to bottom. Every so often, Hermione could hear the beds skidding back and forth as she scourgified the floors within an inch of their lives, dusted every surface whether it was flat or otherwise, and sealed the windows, floors, and wood with shine spells.

The young Gryffindor had grown accustomed to the nudging and budging sounds, so when they stopped abruptly, she sat up and listened with intent ears… after years spying with Harry and Ron, it was second nature to her to turn perfectly still and tune her attention beyond. As much as she berated them, she was as much a trouble-maker as they were.

"Severus, I've been meaning to speak to you—"

"Gods, I already have a raging headache, Poppy. There's no need to holler."

"I do _not_ holler."

"As you say... I received your request for supplies and I am upholding it—would you prefer I use my intuition, or can I survey your stores in peace from your heckling?"

"No, go ahead. But, please, spare me a moment… I am deeply concerned."

"For Merlin's sake, I've been taking the potion-"

"Not for _you._ Although, I am glad you have been taking the potion. No, this about Albus."

"For Merlin's-Just leave it alone, Poppy."

"No. I've seen him—and his hand. He's well enough, but I know when that man is keeping something from me. It's bad this time, isn't it? It's more than the hand? He wouldn't let me perform a proper diagnostic, and I thought nothing of it, but-"

"Not _now,_ Poppy."

"Oh, so I'm not good enough of a healer to bother with him, is it, then?"

"Don't be an idiot, Madam. I would be blessed to know as little as you do of the ordeal."

"Blessed? What ever could you mean by..."

Then there was silence—they were whispering, or perhaps he had stormed away as he tended to do. Hermione was too busy straining to hear them that she had turned around to face the door, her back to the cauldrons…

Then suddenly, _"Fully recovered!_ Do you take me for a fool? I'll believe that when skrewts fly."

"Knowing Hagrid that feat has already been arranged."

"Hmmm… as you say, Severus. I still don't believe you, but I understand why you are lying. He has his ways."

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Madam."

"Hmph! You of all people know what he is like."

"Do I, now?"

Hermione smiled to herself… despite the tensions she had sensed between the nurse and the potions master, there seemed to be a dynamic changing between them—a familiarity they had not shared previously. Although she had expected Professor Snape to be even nastier to the witch after what Dobby had told him, it seemed that today he was feeling cordial… perhaps the effect had been the opposite. Or perhaps he had truly gone off his rocker after the night before.

Still, the lightness of their conversation made her feel slightly confused, and a little bit hopeful. And what a strange emotion hope was; it could taste so sweet, and yet so cool… like menthol. In her beating heart, it felt balm to a burn. Oddly, she had not even realized she had given up hope until she heard it beating in her ears... if Severus Snape and Poppy Pomfrey could get along, then there was hope for...

 _For what,_ exactly, _Hermione?_

She failed to register that their voices had been growing louder as they had been heading for the store room, too caught up in her own traitorous thoughts.

"Miss Granger!"

Hermione nearly fell from her perch, but threw her arms out to steady herself and caught the ledge of a nearby bookshelf. She realized immediately that she had been kneeling on the bench, craning towards the door in a precarious position and hastily went to right herself to propriety.

When Madam Pomfrey pushed through, she immediately headed for the potions, which were desperate for a good stir, each bubbling wildly.

The potions master at her heels steeled the scrambling witch with a sneer, "That will be ten ruined potions in less than twenty-four hours, Miss Granger!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Severus," Poppy interrupted, "They're hardly ruined..."

"Anything less than perfection is ruined," the potions professor retorted, "Turning your back on brewing, Miss Granger, and such a delicate potion, at that? Don't think simply because you're magically addled that I will expect less than excellence from any potions pupil. If you do not shape up, I fear we will have another Longbottom on our hands."

She winced as his anger lifted higher without raising his voice. Each word came out as a stressed hissing syllable, "You could have blown this entire room to bits, yourself included, and what a pretty little red spot you would have created in the corner of Madam Pomfrey's spotless wing. How dare you let yourself be distracted in such a way... I've wasted years trying to get that very notion through that thick hair of yours, and yet here we are. If I hadn't evaluated you myself, I would have thought that the loss of your magic might have stolen a few of your brain cells... unless, of course, they were already missing in the first place, which I am not quite convinced they weren't. I expected more from you, but it seems I am mistaken..."

Madam Pomfrey's gray-green eyes jumped from Hermione, who was staring at the potions master's face and very pointedly avoiding his dark, flat eyes, to the man himself, who was very pointedly staring above her head, towards the small stock of ingredients she kept. She wanted to berate Severus—the girl was in a fragile state… any criticism could—

"Have you an excuse, Miss Granger?" He challenged briskly, his voice a low, displeased timbre.

"No," she answered, wide-eyed... almost in awe.

"Then _explain_ yourself, witchling," he demanded.

"I was being foolish and let myself get distracted," she muttered, almost stubbornly, having regained function of her facial muscles and clamping her mouth shut. She glanced at him once more, before glaring at the cauldrons with their barely spared potions, then steeling herself to face them both with an apologetic nod, "Sorry."

"Why, then, if you are so foolish, should I grant you the permission to practice potions at all?"

She hardly spared a beat before she answered, "Because I am better than that... you've taught me better than that. It won't happen again, I swear it. _Ever._ "

Poppy hadn't seen such a change in her all day—the color returned to her cheeks, the bones straightened in her shoulders, and she seemed to have a purpose. Even when she smiled, she had not seemed, well, like Hermione… but in that moment, she was herself, frowning besides. The nurse blinked… how was that possible?

Professor Snape's eyes glinted towards her face briefly, and then he frowned—he had sensed the change as well. It alluded him, but he found he had nothing more to say. His berating had served its purpose.

Hermione waited proudly for him to continue to berate her, but he instead relaxed and nodded to her respectfully.

"Do not make me regret this again. Now, as enjoyable as it is, I am not here to pinpoint every single one of your poor potions practices, Miss Granger." He began with a taut expression, "Due to our severe shortage of potions ingredients, I will be making a trip to Diagon Alley…"

The witch immediately looked intrigued—although at first remaining at Hogwarts had seemed exciting, she was beginning to fool like a cooper up owl. Before she had registered the foolishness of the thought, she began to stand up, hopeful that he would let her accompany him, before she realized how dangerous that would be… and how strange it would seem to see her walking beside the potions master in broad daylight?

 _Not so very strange_ , she reminded herself. She was studying to be a healer with his help, wasn't she?

He noted her excitement. When it fell, his sneer deepened, "…I was reminded by our _kind_ matron that you might perhaps need me to… pick up a few items."

She thought furiously for a moment… _what could I possible need from Diagon Alley?_

"Er… nothing comes to mind that I couldn't mail order, sir."

"Quite," he noted dryly.

He glanced then to Poppy, then towards her stores, "I will buy as much as I can with what budget the Board has approved. It is not much by any means... but given the current political climate, the infirmary potions will be my priority."

"Thank you," the nurse said with a strange expression on her face.

He nodded solemnly, before turning on his heel.

It was then that Hermione was struck with courage, and she stood up, almost stumbling, "Wait!"

He turned, brow lifted high towards the hands she had stretched towards him-which she dared to try and grab his arm with.

With a sheepish look, she snatched it back, a centimeter from grabbing the thick wool robes, and used it to reach into her pocket to offer him what few galleons she had a habit of carrying with her, "Could you buy a book with this? Whatever you choose is fine, I trust your judgement."

"The library is not sufficient for your... tastes?" He asked her.

She blushed, "I was hoping you would find a piece the library lacks… something that could help me with… Occlumency, or… healing, or... Magical Theory. Whichever. Something advanced, that I couldn't order from the _catalog..."_ In other words, from Knockturn Alley. When her eyes met his, for a brief moment she feared he would use Legilimency, but somehow she knew he had not, yet still understood the sentiment, "I was hoping to learn more about talismans. You mentioned them, didn't you?"

His face remained unreadable when her hands pressed the galleons into his palm.

For a moment, she thought he might rip his hand away to toss the money at her feet with a scoff, but then his jaw was once again less tense than it typically was. It was subtle-almost missed, but she caught it... she had been waiting for it. In that same moment, she thought she saw a glimmer of the man she had seen before—the man she had seen retreating into himself in the classroom after he had raged through his office, the one who was pained and lonely, and terribly sad. He seemed lost, for a moment-and very, very burdened.

Then he tore his hand away, galleons clutched within, and left.

She shivered when he was gone, swooping out the door in a swirl of black robes, and she was left unsure of why she felt so empty in his absence... and why her hand felt so warm. She lifted it, dragging it absently over her neck.

"Are you alright?" Madam Pomfrey asked, looking up from the brewing cauldrons to gaze upon her critically.

The witch wrapped her arms around herself and nodded, "Just cold."

Strange that she could be freezing, considering the heat rising in the room from the flames beneath the potions. But in comparison to her palm, every other part of her body felt akin to ice. There was no condescension, however, when Madam Pomfrey immediately dismissed her, ordering her to go return to her Tower and sit by the fire—but not before she offered her the book, _Brewing to Heal_.

Hermione found herself rushing out of the wing, hugging the thick, heavy tome… but instead of heading directly to the tower, she wrapped around the second floor, intent for the large window overlooking the front of the castle.

It was not as high up as her tower window, but it was high up enough that she could see a black form drifting along the narrow path that would lead up to the gates of Hogwarts. His strides were purposeful as ever and his cloak flew behind him in a similar manner, whipping against the slightly voracious wind that had descended upon Hogwarts. Once he was beyond the entrance, he disappeared without looking back, a swirl of black and then nothingness.

Staring at the empty space where he had been, her heart felt heavy in her chest—why was it so hard to watch him leave? What did that even mean?

 _Don't be foolish, Hermione. You know what it means._

 _But… I don't fully..._

 _Yes, you do..._ _If he never comes back, you'll never get to repay him, and that makes you..._

Sad. It made her sad, to think about him dead, alone, and unforgiven, unredeemed, unseen.

 _Invisible._

That loneliness he felt, that she had seen, that she had _felt_ , it made him feel invisible, and being cruel and hateful, that was the only way he could be he died right then and now, everyone would remember him as the hated professor, the pariah, and not the carefully crafted man of shadows, the dedicated servant that she saw him to be... nay, that she _knew_ him to be. He would be remembered, but he would still be invisible.

It was a burdened sort of feeling to be the only one who could recognize him for what he was, and one she was unsure if she could ever adjust to—she had realized it briefly the night before, when she could offer him no comfort from the rage that had hurt him so terribly despite wanting desperately to wash him clean of all the anger and pain. It was strange, feeling this way for someone she, herself, had missed... for a long time, he had been invisible to her, too. But the veil had lifted, so neatly and suddenly, and she could _see_ him.

He would not want her to help him, had expressed that he wanted no such thing, but she couldn't help but feel that she was _meant_ to help him. He had saved her and now… now she was supposed to save him. She was supposed to see him and use it to help him.

But what was she supposed to do with that? What was she to do if he did not want her help? What could she do without magic to help him?

She thought about her inflective vision... the one that had taken her to the potions Professor Snape had brewed to protect the Sorcerer's Stone. In her mind's eye, she could remember the black flame so vividly, and she could almost taste the potion on her lips, but it was barely, barely there. She could see the little girl that she had been, all brown eyes and olive skin and bushy hair... and an expression that was so unsure, so lost, so lonely, so _invisible_.

But, although that was what she had endeavored to find when she had entered the Divide, in her past it was not magic that had saved her from the troll, nor was it magic that had led her down to the bowels beneath the Third Floor Corridor. It was not magic that had found her at Hogwarts-that had made her visible and whole and loved... that had healed her loneliness...

It was _friendship..._ a balm which could heal all wounds.


	13. Nausea

**A/N: It's coming along, it's coming along, and… it's coming along. Schools started… yuck! BUT the classes I have registered have proven interesting thus far, so we will see. Also, I somehow miraculously got exempt from a final already, first day in! WOOHOOOOOOOO.**

 **I was deeply, deeply saddened by Alan Rickman's passing. This one is for him.**

* * *

Chapter Thirteen  
 _Nausea_

* * *

To Hermione's delight, she awoke the next morning to a plainly wrapped package. She eagerly ignored the arrangement of vials to pull the very obviously book-shaped gift into her lap. Surprisingly, as soon as she touched it, the wrapping began to shred itself into delicate streamers. Once it had been fully undone, the paper wove itself back into the form of a single slip of parchment.

 _6 pm, tonight. Do not be late._

Gingerly, she traced the starkly black ink of his spidery scrawl, ignoring the fact that he had challenged her ability to keep care of a book. He had such distinct handwriting for such an enigmatic man—one more contradiction to the list of contradictions he had presented to her of late. Unfortunately, the parchment was much like all the other notes she had ever received from him. After only handful of moments, it vanished into thin air.

She admired the absence more than mourned it… Time-lapse charms were not even covered in NEWT levels, if she remembered correctly, yet she was no surprised that he of all could manage them. Professor Snape _had_ performed wandless magic in her presence (although many of her classmates might have missed it, _she_ had not). But then again, Dumbledore could manage the feat, as well. Somehow that was less surprising... he was a widely respected wizard. She could agree that Professor Snape was powerful, too... it was logical than wandless magic would be easy for him.

So why was this beautiful magic at his hand so surprising to her?

Perhaps it was because he was the angry, cruel potions master—full of hatred and envy. Still, potions were an art... and although dark, he did have a dignified sort of style that put other wizards his age to shame (Remus among them).

They, herself included, were all blind. Not only could he practice wandless magic, but he was a potions _master…_ he was knowledgeable beyond his field (Charms, Transfiguration), and of course she had seen him nearly level his own office after Dumbledore had returned. The mere fact that he could contain such anger for her sake was proof of his Occlumency abilities. Then there was his uncanny ability to summon his possessions from all parts of the castle—potions and blankets and… well. Only someone intricately involved with the castle could manage to do as such with the many wards placed on the castle.

It was no wonder that everyone else was afraid of him... he was powerful. But it was also a wonder that there were not more people who admired him. There were many admirable qualities that he possessed. It was very clear to her that he did not allow others to see him in such a light... and why?

Almost guiltily, she shrugged out of the emerald throw that had all but replaced her comforter. She had yet to acknowledge the peculiarly striking realization that she was, eventually, going to attempt a… _friendship_ with the prickly, if awe-inspiring man—in fact, she wasn't certain such a thing was possible. Had he ever had any friends? Not likely…

Even thinking about him in this way felt wrong—as if she were going against some cardinal Gryffindor rule, or some accepted stigma of society that said "we will not befriend Severus Snape".

 _It's not a crime to admire a Slytherin, you cod._

 _Then why does it feel as if that is how I should feel?_

It was too much to ponder. She rubbed her temples, and finally gave in to imbibing her potions. They were awful, but she was used to it. The head-cold she had developed had not gone away completely, but she supposed she would have to get used to it—she would be prone to illness without her magic. As she let the potions settle in her stomach, she took the book in her hands once more.

It was _The Art and History of Amulets and Talismans_ , and it was rather well-worn and well-read… as she checked the tag, she winced. Even secondhand, it had cost a pretty penny-all but a few knuts. And although it was expensive, it was not the one she had _wanted_ and _hinted_ for.

But Professor Snape had chosen it and for that reason she knew it would be helpful.

 _S_ he'd only briefly touched on the subject of their uses during her research into the Sorcerer's Stone. They were not as powerful as wands, but they were very similar, to the point that some magical communities employed them in tandem with or in place of wands. In Britain, this practice was archaic and unpracticed, except perhaps during ceremonies or for special cases, like her own.

Regardless of such a fact, any magical person in possession of either would need to register it with the Offices of the Misuse of Magical Artifacts. On purchase or discovery, it was mandatory that a witch or wizard submit their amulet and talisman to a binding to their magical signature, so that it could be traced back to them should it be shown to have been misused.

Now, practice with amulets and talismans were not exactly considered dark magic, per say, but because wizards did have a tendency to abuse them, they were highly regulated... even the possession of this book, she wagered, considering its skewed price. The paranoia was not unfounded. Some wizards had been known to use amulets to drain the magic of others. In the past, powerful talismans had been given to Squibs or Muggles with time-lapse detonations for the intent of blowing them up in acts of terrorism (as was the case with one Gellert Grindelwald).

She knew the regulation was… logical, given the ill-purpose of men like the aforementioned dark wizard. But after her experience with Madam Toad… she was less forgiving of the over-involvement of government officials than she ever had been.

Because of this, and although it gave her a prickly sense of apprehension, she had no intention of abiding by the legislature. It would hardly serve the purpose of hiding her illness if she were to leave clues for the ministry (and thus the public) to follow. She would be better off shouting "I've lost my magic!" from the parapets of Gryffindor Tower. Considering Dumbledore's warnings and basic common sense, it was not ideal that anyone would find out her little secret... hence, she would be careful in her attainment of such objects.

"Shouldn't be hard," she snorted to herself... thank goodness it was Snape who helped her, and not McGonagall. Although equally as admirable, her Head of House was known for her "by the books" practices.

As she read, the distinction between amulets and talismans became clearer. For wizards hoping to be aided in the performance of specific spells, talismans were used. This was no doubt why they were popularly advertised towards the Squib population, despite research proving their inability to use them properly (they were _magic_ , after all). Thankfully, she was not a full-fledged Squib, or so the wizards who treated her claimed. She could indeed make use of them, at least in theory.

Unfortunately, however, the amount of talismans she would need to employ in their place would be excruciatingly tedious to keep track of—one for each spell she ever hoped to cast. For emergencies, carrying a _Protego_ charm or perhaps an _Expelliarmus_ would serve her well.

Amulets were less readily available than their cousins, but they were far more powerful. And the beauty about _amulets_ were that they could _store_ magic—if one were lucky enough to make or inherit one. The process was highly secret and was believed to be lost… the only chance of happening upon one was if it was passed down from family member to family member.

 _Once again, this Muggleborn is at a magical disadvantage_ , she bemused.

Although probably impossible to acquire, for someone in her shoes, it could be life or death to own one. In fact, an amulet could have more than likely spared her magic had she known about her condition earlier…

It was unlikely she would ever come across one, or be able to afford one at that: many of them had been destroyed in the Dark Artifact Purges under the reign of 1633. Should there, miraculously, be one in her future, it could save her life… and, in theory, protect Professor Snape's.

With a wince at to what he had thought of her behavior the day previous or what he would think if he could see her thoughts in the moments afterward, she headed for the loo, her eyes never leaving the pages of the tome he had given her _except_ to step into the stream of the shower.

After all, she only had nine hours to read it all before her lesson began.

 **·**

" _Posture_ , Miss Granger!"

Hermione straightened automatically, although her eyes remained on the jars in front of her—they were the very same that had once graced a shelf in his office.

There were no mentions of the headmaster's mysterious absence. In fact, there was not much exchange at all. The little conversation they had had was one-sided: he spoke only to remind her of her goal. In this case, it was to correct her posture which would, somehow, aid her concentration. Since they had begun, there were a few attempts by the potions master to break her focus with dark stares, and sometimes subtle movements... otherwise, he was preoccupied with his own business, which happened to be writing a letter.

Although she respected that he allowed her to find her own way, when she had questions he was impertinently unhelpful. The frustrating wizard remained tight-lipped about any subject that did not concern the task at hand… and even when she was not inflecting, he carefully avoided her oft voiced questions of what she was to look for—pointedly ignoring her pondering mention of the Song, whose existence she briefly wondered if he had made up himself. If she had not heard tendrils of it in her life, she would have believed it a myth.

But no amount of searching could pluck it from her depths, and much like a timidly asked question concerning Cheering Charms and the accompanying summer essay, her curiosity was squished beneath his dark, imposing expressions.

In the days of lessons that followed, her magic, of course, was elusive. For all the faults she had experienced in the mere week since they had settled into the daily rhythm, however, it _was_ at least easier to breach the Divide. The dark water, once ominous, now was comforting and welcoming, warm and comforting in ways that could only compare to being encased in wards or in the arms of her mother.

With one thought, no matter what state of mind she was in, she could let it melt around in gentle, welcoming waves and swallow all thought and feeling. There was not even a shock of ice or fear-not anymore. There was only comfort which surrounded her in the emptiness of nothing.

But she could not stay for very long and when she faced what waited beyond its borders, she was instantly burdened with a sense of foreboding. She had begun to understand what Professor Snape had said about her not knowing her own mind.

In two days, she had vanquished one more _Face_ , as she had believed he had called them: one in the form of Professor McGonagall, her boggart, which had tried to expel her from Hogwarts for being a Squib. It had taken gritted teeth and produced tears, but in the end she had been able to convince the woman that she was there to stay, and locked her in the cupboard she had emerged from. At the end of the ordeal, she did not have the key to her magic, but she was allowed to pass into another layer of her mind without the creature to haunt her.

Today, there were no boggarts, or Third Floor Corridor—no troll, no tears, no young Hermione Granger haunting her with her loneliness, no boggart McGonagall chastising her to tears… she had already passed those tests (in real-life and in her memories). Within her mind, however, nothing was easy.

Although it was recognizable, the shelves around her were definitely _not_ the beloved stacks that she knew… they were quite similar, but taller and longer than she remembered. After turning her head from side to side and taking in the space with a keen, narrowed gaze, she realized where she was. In place of the reasonably large Hogwarts collection was an unfathomably larger one with rows extending towards eternity in all directions. When she walked down the aisle, a path appeared in front of her, leading into an equally extensive corridor...

 _A maze… bloody perfect._

"Oh, this is going to take forever!" She groaned to herself, collapsing against the nearest shelf, only to have the _Monster Book of Monsters_ rattle against the lock someone had placed on it to feebly attempt to bite her shoulder.

She jumped away… beyond her mind, she heard a clatter as her hands had instinctively reached forward to brace herself.

"We do not, indeed, have forever," a voice interrupted as she straightened. It was a booming intercom which echoed against her temples like a hammer to a gong. She clutched her head and blinked and the worlds wavered together for a single moment, potions classroom and library fusing to one.

Although she was anchored to the shelf nearest to her and silent, she could simultaneously hear herself stutter over the next label instead of muttering a defiant curse, ignoring the cruel words of her potions master who would no doubt reprimand her when she full resurfaced.

It took some gritting of her teeth, but she managed not to be torn from through Divide by its echo, which roared around her for moments after.

"P-Persimmon rind…" her voice finally drowned out the lingering traces of Professor Snape's silky voice.

The corridor remained in front of her, but she did not enter.

Eventually, after a period of stalling, she pondered if instead of entering the maze, if she could manage to climb the stacks to the tops of the shelves—if she could gain height, perhaps the puzzle would be clearer to navigate.

Still, her heart thudded in her chest at the thought of being at the top.

 _The height isn't real!_ She told herself.

Her feet remained planted. She did not enter or climb, but instead turned around and began to contemplate the books that on the shelf opposite the new entrance, avoiding what she knew she would have to do and trying to reason with herself to do it.

 _Where did they all come from?_

 _Have you read them all?_

She winced, but tried not to think about that as she began to trace the titles of books with her fingers… they were all titles she had read, intermixed with ones she had referenced, and more still that she had only heard mentioned in passing by others. Magical and muggle alike, all crammed in disorder on the shelves.

She had lists and lists of books she had hoped to read or come across in her life… was this where she kept them all?

Instinctively, she reached to pluck one from the shelf. Just as her fingers closed around it, however—

"What do you think you are doing?"

It was not Professor Snape, so she did not obey the voice. She had learned that within her mind, no one was a friend, until they proved themselves to be. Determined to ignore the visitor in her quest for answers, she willed them away, pulling the book free.

 _I could really use my wand right now,_ she told herself… vainly hoping it would appear.

It didn't.

She reached for another title, only to have her hand yanked roughly by gnarled, squeezing fingers. She winced when the grip tightened, twisting her wrist before shoving her away from the stacks. With her other hand, she reached for the shelf—books were torn from their shelf with her falling weight. As they clunked to the ground, the visitor (as she had begun to call them) shrieked, and with furious swipes she turned Hermione round to face her. She was at once pushed away, shoved against the stacks with force not unlike the troll from the previous layer of her psyche.

"You dare defile _my_ books! You dare touch them with your filthy Squib hands? They can serve you no more, daft girl!"

 _Not this argument again_ , she bemoaned.

The woman looked like Madam Pince, but she was far uglier than Hermione remembered (and that was saying something). She grabbed the girl's shoulder, pinning her against the books behind her.

"You don't belong here anymore... your _kind_ belong in an _ordinary_ library."

"It's my own bloody head!" Hermione snapped… irritated with herself for partially believing the woman, for letting her be bullied.

Would she belong in the wizarding world without her magic?

 _"Let me go!"_ She demanded… she refused to be manhandled by a part of her own brain. Her eyes darted towards the entrance... but it had disappeared.

 _Idiot_ , she told herself... the stacks were closing around her, sealing her into a box with the harpy in front of her clawing at her arms.

" _LEAVE_!" The woman said, her grasp ripping into Hermione's tender flesh.

"For goodness sake—" Hermione gasped, "How can I leave with you holding me still!"

 _"LEAVE!"_ The witch echoed. All around her, the stacks were collapsing, closing in around them.

The witch squeezed her wrists, then pushed her against the shelf. The physical contact of books falling over her head was far too real for her liking and so she closed her eyes and willed herself away. The water rushed around her with so much force that she could feel it turning her skin inside out...

Although arriving was becoming easier, departing was still quite shocking. She was torn from her mind and sent jutting forward, gasping for breath and shivering from the sensation of once more being fully within her body.

Professor Snape did not spare her a glance. He was boring over his potions, either ignorant or uncaring of her current frazzled state.

"Tell me, Granger…" without turning an eye or even half his face towards her, he began to drawl in that way he did when he was irritated with her, "Do your thoughts rule you, or do you rule your thoughts?"

"Er…" she began to say, gathering as much air as she could in one gulp, "I suppose it… depends on how aware I am of my… own way of thinking."

"Precisely," he continued as he circled around one of the cauldrons, facing her and glaring, "Perhaps it would be best to change your way of thinking, then, if you hope to get any further."

She was silent, pondering what he could possible mean. He was not angry, but his face was blank and that was far more irritating to her now than it ever had been. She could use some encouragement—the woman was trying to kill her!

 _Hadn't the troll tried the same? What made him less frightening?_

The difference was that she had already faced the Troll and won… she had already swallowed the potion and continued away from the chess game. She had already defeated her boggart, too.

The library was closer to her core—it was more a part of her than all the other events combined. Being denied access to it… well it was like being denied access to her magic, and that meant that these were deeper, darker waters.

Was she closer to finding her magic, then? Was that why she was being kept away?

"Again," She demanded hopefully... she could deal with Pince-she'd always wanted to tell the irritating witch off, anyhow.

He turned and steeled her with a smirk, "As I _said,_ Miss Granger, or have I suddenly inherited your lisp or Longbottom's stutter?"

She gritted her teeth, but began, once again, at the beginning of the row of vials. Her voice echoed in her head as she bypassed the Divide swiftly, entering the library with a great purpose.

This time, she pushed past the bastardized version of Madam Pince with a prompt, "Sod off, hag… it's _my_ library, this time, and I decide who and who will touch these books or not. _You_ will leave... _now."_

The creature dissolved in moments, but she was too busy entering the maze.

Beyond, she missed the smirk that Professor Snape hid beneath his curtain of hair.

·

"That's quite enough... Miss Granger... Miss. Granger."

Although he snapped his fingers in front of her, she remained where she sat. Although her eyes lifted to meet his, he could tell that she was far deeper than she let on. Even though he was pushing against it, a flicker of thought slipped past his wards, washing over him. There was, thankfully, not hint of song, but flashes of endless rows of books and feelings of curiosity, apprehension, and annoyance.

"Miss Granger," he snapped—barely refraining from rapping her over the head with his wand. The connection was broken and his shields were very firmly in place by the time she blinked away.

Her eyes opened—not physically, but _mentally…_ the glassiness fell away, returning her consciousness fully. Her brow furrowed and she winced... she had been focusing too hard and had yet to repeat a label in minutes, which probably had left her with a pinching headache, "Sir?"

"It is past dinner-time," he said blandly, waving a hand towards the door. His eyes, however, did not leave her face, "That is enough for today."

She winced slightly… he hid his frown by turning towards the cauldrons.

"Thank you for your time and effort, sir," she said softly, before she gathered her things.

He grunted in response—his back was burning and his headache had been growing, a product of his slow-weaning from the _Cruciatus_ potion. Because the brew conflicted with his typical pain regiment, he was suffering more than he was not.

Such was his hell, however, and he would sooner accept it than fight it.

"Oh, and sir," he had nearly forgotten she was there in his haze of discomfort, "Thank you for the book."

He narrowed his eyes at her, but said in response, "Dinner, Miss Granger."

Her eyes flickered towards him, but she left quickly after, hastily closing the door behind her.

 _Foolish, impertinent…_ he sighed, pinching his nose. He did not have the patience to watch her eat, but he could not stomach allowing her to neglect herself. She had already gotten sick once, did she need to be ill again?

What part of "decreased magical immunity" did she not understand?

"Dobby?"

The elf appeared promptly and with a deep bow, hats teetering.

"Dobby will serve Master Snapes," he said eagerly.

"Please ensure that Miss Granger receives a hearty dinner," the potions master insisted, "And that she eats every last bite."

"And if Miss does not want to eat?"

The potions master growled, "Then remind her that her magic will simply wilt at a much quicker pace than it already is and that I will gladly let it rot if she refuses to care for it."

Dobby's eyes widened in shock. The potions master dared him to argue, but the elf's surprise melted into a pensive expression. He snapped away before Severus dismissed him. The Slytherin Head sneered at the empty space he had occupied, but knew that he would serve his duty: Miss Granger would eat, of that he was certain.

Now alone, he smirked at the place she had left behind. Although her magic was not underfoot, per say, he had no doubt she was making progress. The smirk vanished quickly, however, when he caught the scent of lavender and vanilla that lingered in her wake. His mind had been so occluded the whole time—physically repelling her open, waiting mind—that he had not smelt it until he had relaxed in the absence of her presence. Now, it was so pungent, almost as if she had never left, but instead remained sitting in front of him, chewing her lip as her eyes trailed along the labels.

He sighed irritably and waved away the memory of her—smell and sight—with a spell. The herby, sweet scent dispersed immediately, returning his dungeons to spice and mildew. The vision of her, however, haunted him-big, amber eyes which threatened to pierce her thoughts into his.

From his desk, he produced the worn journal he had nabbed from an innocent section of the library. It was a detailed study of the Song by one Eros Gould, conducted using the accounts of various families who employed their use in the eleventh century to… well, he could not even repeat it to himself why they used the Song; it was too painful for him to acknowledge.

 _"How could the Song help me with my_ magic _?" She voiced aloud—it was a question mostly directed towards herself. Still, her eyes were on his face again… avoiding his gaze, but looking at him purposefully all the same._

 _His answer was silence, as it always was, although a part of him wondered if she knew… if she knew, if she would hate him for keeping it from her. But what difference would it make?_

 _She already hated him. She was safer hating him._

 _Her eyes darted away and her lip set to that furious biting. He sneered and returned to his own work._

Although it had seemed trivial at the time, now that it was in his possession and he had read it nearly eight times over, he was lucky to have gotten to it before she had. He knew that should it fall into her hands, she would be quite disgusted by him… quite possibly would run in the other direction, abandoning her magic where it was hidden to flee from him.

To admit, he was quite disgusted by himself, for not realizing his error sooner, for not keeping the knowledge of the Song to himself...

Even _he_ had forgotten what it could be used for besides what his mother had reminded him when he was a small boy. After all, he had been born a half-blood… unworthy of the need for the Song which Princes had used for centuries as a tool of match-making. Ironic, as well, given his mother's own poor experience with such a practice.

He cursed himself, too, for letting his mind wander and _wonder_ what it would be like if she knew, and also if she were to accept it for what it was. The fact that he could hear her magic— _her_ Song—was one thing, but that she could not find it herself made such an _innocent_ , _common_ fact even worse. The mere knowledge that her magic and his were "counteracting", as Gould had recounted in his book, made his refusal to accept their… compatibility far worse. There were benefits to finding a compatible "song-mate", or so the wizard had claimed and many pureblood families had believed.

Severus, however, was determined to find counteracting research, hence his silence on the subject.

Still, he knew it was foolish to refrain from abusing the cure that was so readily in his hands… it was putting his own life in danger by not doing so! But he could not allow himself to use it. If it were any other witch, perhaps they could come to a reasonable arrangement, but she was more capable, and intelligent, than any witch he had ever met. It was hard-coming that he had realized as such, but he knew it now. In the mere weeks as her tutor, he knew. And he would not let himself fall victim to believing that she would fail.

Perhaps it was a cruel, twisted way of making amends for his own mother, but he refused to let her die over this.

She was already far closer to healing than his mother had been… she had the will, at least. That was enough, wasn't it?

After all, who would want to be bound to a miserable Death Eater spy whose sole purpose in this war was to die for the child of the woman he had once loved? Not even magic was worth such a cost.

Before any part of him could argue that perhaps death might be costlier, the Mark on his arm burned madly—a direct Summons.

"... just _perfect._ "

·

"He sent you, didn't he?" Hermione glared at the plate before her, which had appeared moments before Dobby had arrived to ask her to eat it.

The house elf winced, "Dobby wishes Miss to eat, too."

She chewed her lip. As if it was not clear already, at the sight of the massive place she knew that she was far from hungry. To make matters worse, the potions she was going to eat in an hour would likely settle like lead in her stomach after eating such a heavy meal. Her only solace would be to sleep it off until late in the morning.

"I really don't—"

Dobby nearly trembled from the effort to keep his mouth shut.

She leaned away from him as he scrambled forward, wringing his hands—two centimeters from a nervous wreck… or, as she knew, from hurting himself.

"Alright!" She exclaimed wildly, startling him to jumping. She settled down, calmly saying, "Alright..."

"Miss must keep Miss's magic strong," the elf blurted suddenly. His shoulders relaxed at once.

"My magic can't need _this_ much food. I don't have much—"

"Every bite, Master Snapes said!" The elf reminded her cheerily, "Every bite for Miss's magic, and some chocolate to top it off"

He did not sit, but stood watching her closely.

"Dobby, do you have to—"

"Every bite!" He repeated shrilly.

She blinked at him, then sighed, abandoning her book to the safety of the side table, before pulling the plate into her lap to eat.

Under her breath, before the first bite, she muttered, "Professor Snape should take his own advice for once!"

Dobby's green eyes darted from her face to the fire, before his lips twitched.

"What?" She asked over a mouthful of too-rich, too-creamy mashed potatoes.

"Elves agree—but Miss should not worry. Master Snapes does not waste any food," he said, "Elves have noticed... Elves make certain Master Snapes finds food."

Hermione watched the house elf closely—they truly were amazingly kind creatures… prone to such loving and devotion. They even found an excuse to try to fatten Professor Snape up... how could anyone fathom to mistreat them?

She found herself asking, "Is Professor Snape mean to the elves?"

Dobby did not think about his response, "Master Snapes is a fine wizard… but sometimes, Winky is lonely, and Winky yells at Dobby, but Dobby knows Winky is just missing Winky's charge."

"And Professor Snape... does the same?" She insisted, confused as to what he meant.

"Sometimes, Miss... Dobby is worried," the elf admitted after a time. Hermione woke from her trance—she'd been staring at the plate for a long time, imagining Professor Snape glaring down his nose at Dobby, calling him a filthy house elf… somehow, the image did not seem feasible, despite his sneering countenance. She replaced the word "filthy" with foolish, and her lips had twitched.

Dobby shivered violently, distracting her from the daydream.

"Is everything alright?"

The elf nodded—but his eyes did not meet hers. When she was finished, she allowed him to take the plate, then smiled, "Give your reports to Professor Snape! _Every bite_ ," she added in mock-contempt of his deep, velvety voice, trying to cheer the elf.

Dobby only nodded morosely.

He took the plate and was gone before she could utter another word. Now alone, the Gryffindor stared after him in bewilderment, convinced that he was as strange an elf as he was an independent one. She was immediately distracted when Crookshanks appeared and promptly hopped into her lap, curling around the emerald throw she had dragged down from her dorm.

"Hello, love," she greeted, scratching his head and sighing contentedly in his presence.

Although it was mostly forgotten, she did not shake the feeling of foreboding she felt even as she laid down an hour later to fall asleep, aided by a guilty swig of Dreamless Sleep to quell her growing nausea. Only when the blackness fell did she once again feel... weightless.

·

A few hours before sunrise, Severus trekked back up to the castle with great weariness. Fawkes had been waiting for him, to make his journey to the headmaster easier for him. He, however, waved the bird away impatiently. There was too much weighing on his mind at the moment to face Albus immediately… now that his thoughts were his own, he needed to process what had just happened to him, before they were once again picked clean by a meddling wizard.

It had not been his intention, but when his shields fell for a moment in relief to be once again safe on Hogwarts soil, the guilt burned like hot fire in his throat. Before he had even made it another step, he turned and retched on the side of the well-worn path to the castle steps.

 _That girl better not be watching from that blood tower,_ he thought as he wiped his mouth clean with a hastily cast _Aguamenti_ and the sleeve of his Death Eater robes, which he had not even bothered shedding. He sent a glare upward towards the Gryffindor Tower, but there was no light in any of its windows. He cursed himself for the flush of embarrassment that flooded his cheeks...

He swallowed it and the bitter taste of bile.

Thankfully for them both, the sigil confirmed her presence when he twisted it on his finger—the fire burned hot in Gryffindor Tower… hot enough to convince him that she was cuddled in sleep, where he knew there were no windows to see him.

Certain that she was not waiting for or watching him, he swept quickly to the entrance. Moments into the hall, however, his hair stood on end.

He tensed immediately—wandless magic sent whatever creature was waiting for him in the shadow of a suit of armor scurrying forward into his outstretched palm. Wide, tennis-ball green eyes showed great fear as his towel covered body was yanked across the stone, toes barely brushing the stone as he was being lifted above the ground by an invisible hand at his neck. Although his elvin magic would protect him, the elf dutifully submitted to his will, allowing him to be dragged another meter. Before he could even squeeze the creature's neck, he released his paranoid magic, letting his small body collapse against the stone.

The house-elf wheezed slightly, a bastardized apology if Severus could tell through his own haze of guilt.

"My apologies, Dobby," he muttered.

Although his voice was rough, the words were sincere. He crouched down, offering the elf his own personal handkerchief to cough into. The creature's eyes widened significantly towards it—even a handkerchief was considered clothing to such suppressed magical beings… Severus was not ignorant of this fact.

With trembling fingers, Dobby took the embroidered cloth. Although Severus did not think himself worthy, the forgiveness was evident in the way that he tied the handkerchief immediately around his neck, not unlike the cravat Severus, himself, wore.

The elf had clearly been waiting for him… he had been hiding in the shadows of the Entrance Hall. Elves were not known for such things—it was rare to catch them doing anything that did not have a purpose.

And now the little fool was looking at him with wide, admiring eyes.

 _Idiot._

"What in..." He muttered, then sighed, "Never mind—I don't have time for this."

He did not wait to see the elf's reaction—although he had some suspicion as to why had been waiting, he was still a curious creature. Poppy would be sorely disappointed that her spy would have nothing to report… after all, he was unscathed and completely healthy.

 _Physically_ , at least. With that, he lifted his shields, knowing that he would crumble without them.

Although he would much rather let them fall and promptly drown himself in Ogden's Finest, he headed instead for the Headmaster's Office. Feeling lower than he had in years, he headed for the gargoyle with heavy shoulders, wondering how the hell he was going to relive Emmeline and Amelia's deaths without shattering into a hundred thousand pieces.


	14. A Blissful Sound Called Hope

**A/N: I'm a bit worried that this chapter might have come from left field, but I realize the pace of this thing needs to quicken up. There are things to be had and stuff to be done and romances to slowly begin to happen and whatnot. The fic needs to last beyond the summer, so I've changed the pace, a bit, or at least I think I have... No hanky-panky for a while yet, sorry, but I thought this was an interesting interaction, nonetheless. Please read and review, and I want to thank all of you for your consistent support and love. Cheers to you!**

* * *

Chapter Fourteen  
 _A Blissful Sound Called Hope_

* * *

Professor Snape was more distant than he ever had been—disturbingly silent and noticeably distracted during every lesson—and understandably so. Since the deaths of Emmeline Vance and Amelia Bones, she had found herself of a similar countenance, much to the wizard's indifference. Their shared silence was comforting to her, although she would not voice her opinion to him—that would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?

Sybil Trelawney (of all people) had returned from her brief holiday with an estranged sister, but she'd never liked Hermione, and hardly counted any more than Filch did in the grand scheme of things. It mattered little, as she spent most of the hours of the day hiding in her own Tower… and Hermione often found herself avoiding the castle, choosing instead to hiking the grounds.

The headmaster, too, was seen very little… only at a rare dinner or breakfast would she catch him in passing. The sight of his gnarled, black arm left her with an unsettled feeling in her stomach. Even when he lingered to ask after her she found herself making excuses to part from his company.

The nurse, sadly, was her closest friend, and even that was by loose definition. There was a hint of something more—something perhaps similar to the bond she shared with Professor McGonagall—but if Hermione was being truly honest, she was the one who was holding back. Although Madam Pomfrey could offer her wisdom and companionship, she found herself visiting the hospital wing less and less as the days grew to a week. She vainly wished Hagrid would return, although Snape had grudgingly informed her that he was on an assignment important for the Order, as she knew he would provide her the perfect distraction from her melancholy.

At first, she'd tried to cheer herself up by knitting by hand for the elves. Then she remembered they all, but hated her... reading always seemed to serve a purpose and what she needed was not to do something, but to do nothing. There was no Harry or Ron to keep her from over-worrying, no Fred and George pranking to fuel her righteous fire, or rock cakes and too-strong tea to keep her spirits up at Hagrid's.

Unfortunately, her loneliness came at the worst time. In those few weeks, much had happened, but there was little good news to be had. Although the Daily Prophet now was scrambling to be more informative about the war, there was already too much news of Voldemort's followers that the Front Page seemed burdened with the amount of speculation about the happenings surrounding the Chosen One, as well as the growing political tensions.

In both worlds, there were many mysterious disappearances… kidnappings, spontaneous combustion, and even blatant murders. To her annoyance, the papers did not speak equally of the Muggle casualties, but her mother's letters spoke volumes enough for her. Although no one else seemed to bother, Jean Granger expressed her comfort that Hermione was safe at Hogwarts, hidden away from the cruel world that was beginning to rear its ugly head. It made Hermione cringe, knowing she was heavily protected while there were innocent people suffering… she worried more for her parents than she ever had.

The entire situation seemed peculiar to her. Why was it that she should be kept safe at Hogwarts while others were left vulnerable throughout Britain?

There were several other Muggleborns at Hogwarts… their families were no doubt targets, just as hers was. What made her more special than them?

The only logical explanation was that she was special because of her relationship to Harry and because of her affliction. Although once accepting of the thought, in now made her feel lower than she ever had... like a child hiding underneath her bed from an unseen monster.

While she cowered, Amelia Bones was dead. Emmeline Vance was dead. Many mugges were dead, and she was withering away in a near-empty castle, twiddling her thumbs and hoping she could dream-walk her way to redemption. Colin and Dennis, even Dean Thomas with his Muggle mother, were out in the "free" country, sitting ducks. Even with magic, they were worse off than she was in the castle. They could meet the same fates as Bones and Vance, and so easily... life, it seemed, was far from precious to the dark lord.

Would Colin, or Dean, or anyone she knew be killed in the coming storm?

Would the Weasleys be targeted... would all of them survive the war?

Would Harry be truly safe at the Dursleys, at Hogwarts... ever?

Would the same faces she had known for the past five years return the next term, or would they be changed by death and carnage and war?

The thoughts plagued her night and day, so she wandered the grounds, searching for something she knew would not be found: happiness, hope, she couldn't name it. She knew when she found it, her loneliness would fade away. For now, however, she wallowed in the misery of it all.

Water fell on her cheek. When she blinked upward, she realized that it was raining…. that it had started a long time ago, if her semi-soaked clothes gave an indication.

She traced the fallen droplets on her cheek and discovered numbly that they were intermixed with tears. Although she saw no reason to leave—it was merely rain—her aching, unsettled stomach churned violently and her heart creaked in despair.

 _You could have it worse,_ she reminded herself, remembering Professor Snape's ruined back. What would he say of her whining?

Probably nothing, she told herself… he would continue with their charade as he had for the past few weeks, but inwardly she knew he thought their mission impossible. Of course he did, otherwise he would push her much harder than he had been recently, rather than allowing her to wallow as pitifully as she was.

Grudgingly, she dragged herself back towards the castle, wondering if she had any hope at all to ever feel the warmth of magic in her chest instead of an aching emptiness.

 ** _·_**

When he felt the gentle warble of the wards he had purposefully set around the entrance of the castle, Severus ceased his pacing of the third floor corridor. Granted, Miss Granger did not exactly have a curfew, but he had set the wards knowing that not a single member of the Golden Trio could resist the temptation of getting involved in some unfortunate circumstance beyond and within the walls of Hogwarts.

To be honest, he had not intended to wait up for her, but his back was so inflamed that he had sought to ease it by patrolling the empty corridors… the wards merely were left to alert him whether or not she returned or not from the grounds, so he needn't stretch the wards to reach her any longer.

Still, he could not deny that he had kept to the lower levels for the sole purpose of cutting her off on her return. For what purpose, he was uncertain, although he did believe that a conversation was in order. Now that the nightly Order meetings had ended, he could give her much needed attention—after all, Poppy had hounded him to do so and although he was typically willing to ignore her wills, he knew the woman was right that the girl needed some sort of… motivation.

Unfortunately, his distractions, unintentionally, had proved detrimental to her. Although only a week had passed, she was proving to be as difficult as he had predicted her to be, withdrawing into herself much quicker than he had expected. He knew the Dementors likely had a part in it—everyone in Britain was feeling much the same glumness—but he also knew that her situation was weighing heavily on both their minds. He'd been a fool to believe her more resilient than she was, to be the insufferable girl she was still without her magic to guide her, but he was reminded once again that she was little more than a girl. Although her body and mind sometimes dissuaded such knowledge, her emotions were still child-like and uncontrolled.

Although he should not have allowed them to rule her for so long. His first mistake was ignoring the signs. Her lack of appetite was the first that something was amiss… the silence was the second. When he had eventually noticed how disturbing silence was in her presence, it was downright alarming and ever since he could not put the guilt out of his mind that he was neglecting her. Still, he was constantly being pulled in both directions, with Voldemort and Dumbledore taking up arms over the loss of their own. Moody was hounding him at every meeting, accusing him, while the others avoided him warily. Within the castle, he was a slave to the Wolfsbane, or lessons with the girl, or errands for Albus. When at Malfoy Manor, he was avoiding torture and also trying to decipher why Narcissa Malfoy was looking at him differently than she ever had before.

After the fourth lesson of nearly perfect quiet with the girl, he had kept a decidedly close eye on her, but he was not a perfect wizard and their situation was far from simple. Although he could argue it was not his job to comfort her, he had noticed that her behavior was leading her in the exact opposite direction of his magic. Yet, he did nothing. His mind was muddled. He was tired.

Of course, he had let it go on, because he had been absorbed in his own miseries—the deaths of Vance and Bones, the proceeding and genuinely awful Order meeting that occurred afterward, a second Summons on the announcement of Fudge's removal of office… and growing pain in his back that he could not stifle, no matter what he tried. The curse, it seemed, was getting worse, as it had always been, but to the point that he could not even focus.

Thankfully, however, the Order meetings had stopped. Not a second after he had arrived from the last one, that very evening, Poppy had descended upon him, to accost him for his failures.

 _"She's not getting any better, Severus. What are your plans to change that?"_

 _"Are you criticizing the methods which I choose to assist Miss Granger?"_

 _"It's your responsibility to heal her, isn't it? Your horrendous bedside manner besides, you are her healer, now, aren't you? If your methods are not working, change them."_

 _"I fail to see—"_

 _"Help her, Severus! For goodness sake, she needs your assistance more than anyone's. Do something different… I'm not asking you to change for her, just… do something_! _"_

He refused to feel ashamed about the ordeal, despite Poppy's words leaving him with a twinge of regret which he tried to brush off as annoyance. If she could not control her emotions, that was not his fault.

But Poppy was correct that he was responsible for her treatment. If she did not recover, he would be to blame, at least in other's eyes. That was enough for him to consider her advice, when he otherwise would have shoved it where the sun did not shine and told her to bugger off.

Gods, it irritated him that she could be so weak, so... maudlin, but could he truly blame her? The situation _was_ depressing. In her shoes, he would have already offed himself, more than likely. To be without magic would be the greatest prison.

As he haunted the corridors, it had dawned on him that she was feeling restless and cooped up in the castle, discouraged by her lack of progress. It was no excuse he himself hadn't felt the effects of and on her account, too. Perhaps, she was also missing her family and friends, although he had an inkling it was more to do with the darkening political climate and her imbalanced magic. Likely, being the lioness she was, she felt guilty about being safe…

And likely too, she felt hopeless to do anything to protect herself, or anyone else for that matter. He hadn't made her feel otherwise, but such was his nature.

Poppy thought he could do something and he could, but he was widely unwilling to go rooting around in her thoughts to look for her magic. A pestering voice reminded him that as her teacher, it was his duty to do so. Unfortunately, in his opinion, thanks to the Song, it would be far too dangerous—for him rather than for her (although he did not doubt she would blanch as easily as Potter had at such a thing)-to do so. It was not yet an option he would consider, unless the situation was truly so dire that he feared for her life or perhaps Potter's.

The only saving grace to his misery was that if she was the Hermione Granger he knew, eventually, she would tire of her own failure and persevere. Given the pressure from Poppy, he knew that he would have to be the catalyst to such an opinion. Sometimes, and he knew it was true as he was her least favorite teacher because of such an understanding, the chit only needed a push in the right direction, or rather a shove and a snarky remark to get her juices going.

"Insufferable chit," he bemused to himself at the vision of her sitting in front of him, gasping as she returned to her body then smiling when she realized what she had just accomplished. It was the same expression she sometimes tried to hide from him when she brewed a particularly perfect potions (at least in her eyes). Of course, he could remove that expression with a handful of words and had many a time diminished near-perfect work to below-average standard. She would glare at him, angry, hardly biting back her remarks, but she would believe his word because he was a potions master. Then, as he had intended, she would furiously work to prove him wrong on the next assignment.

And thus, the pattern continued throughout the years, until she was outdoing herself when even he thought it impossible... only to ruin his opinions of her with her abhorrently long essays with regurgitated thought.

Smirking to himself, he imagined she would react the same way tonight when he found her. And what would he say to her? She seemed particularly prickly when he brought up her relationship with Weasley and Potter, ever the Gryffindor protecting her friends. Perhaps he could play off how disappointed they would be when she could not return to the school year, considering she was a squib.

They would be expelled without her being the dunderheads that they were. And it would be her fault, or so he would design it to be.

Yes. That would do it. She was to blame for their dimwittedness, for having carried them on her back all these years. Now, because of her, they could not stand on their own two feet. With a determination to keep that from happening, her magic would be right around the corner!

His thoughts dissolved away slightly when the ring on his finger tingled mildly. He lifted his gaze to find a portrait peering at him curiously, before a scowl sent her huffing into the next frame with her back to him.

Although he did not completely understand why, the ring then began to burn, the sensation growing stronger as he stood motionless in the corridor. He paused, turning to glance around him, and the stinging sensation stopped when he faced the entrance of the corridor to his left. When he made to head for them, he was silenced by sounds of approaching steps around the corner. He'd been so into his thoughts he had forgotten that he had been waiting for her...

He made to bark Miss Granger's name, but the ring practically burst into flames it was so hot, swallowing his biting words.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," he muttered. First it was Albus, and now the castle… _meddling_ in his affairs and decisions, as always.

Persistently, the ring hummed against his finger as he waited for Miss Granger to round the corner. Although he had not cast the spell, he felt the familiar Disillusionment charm descend over him, like a sheet of ice, just as she appeared. It was fractured and rudimentary, but it served a purpose, he supposed. It was the castle's way of telling him he was to hide.

 _Bloody, rotting, meddling building,_ he bemoaned.

Disturbed, he slunk back against the shadows instinctively, wondering about the absurdity of it all. The castle seemed determined to lead Miss Granger to him, but prevent her from seeing him—he ignored the tinge of jealousy that left him with and did as he was instructed. He'd learned long ago not to meddle with Hogwarts' intentions. If it wanted to protect her, he was bound to do so, despite her being a Gryffindor.

When she eventually drifted into the corridor where he waited, but she did not look up. The barb he had been prepared to shoot towards her died in his throat as she drifted past, oblivious of even the crude Disillusionment the castle had cast, eyes downward and arms wrapped around her waist tightly, as if she were trying to keep her body from escaping her.

Perturbed by the events and her disheveled appearance, he began to follow her, steps silent and gaze unbroken from her drifting form. The castle did not deter him, so he assumed it was what it wanted.

Exhausted was an appropriate description to describe Miss Granger, as well as _soggy_. Her hair was slightly less riotous, having been deflated by rain. It was darkened from moisture and yet the curve of the smoothed curls caught the shine of the lanterns. Every article of clothing she had donned, several layers from the looks, clung to her body, darkened from the heavy rain that had fallen upon her.

 _Foolish girl…_ he growled inwardly. She was hardly recovered from her recent bout of illness, and now she was romping around in the wilderness, soaking up Dementor mist. At least she was thoroughly covered in clothing, although he doubted the layers helped much with her decreasing temperature.

Had his own mother suffered the same constant chill? From his own memories, he had no doubt she had. She, however, had not been a tactile woman by nature, having been raised for poise and dignity. She would not curl into herself and shiver like Miss Granger had. The very idea of huddling beneath the same overly large sweatshirt like Miss Granger would have seemed unkempt to her… causing her to turn up her nose before reminding him that girls like her were better off left to more _casual_ men.

Miss Granger seemed less inclined to care about such things. She seemed the sort that might enjoy a casual type of man—a kind, funny baffoon like Weasley or Potter, who rode broomsticks for pleasure and enjoyed traipsing off to pubs when her presence didn't suit them.

Yet, he argued, her intelligence contradicted such an idea. Although she lacked the arrogance of a woman like Eileen Prince or Narcissa Malfoy, she _was_ similar to them in that she was the type of woman who could back up a claim of confidence. From experience, he knew she could be fiery and demanding and proud. Like the aforementioned purebloods, she was was poised when needed and gentle when the situation called for it.

And while perhaps not like his mother, she had a charming face. While not characteristically beautiful, she was not completely plain. Her skin was exotically golden, curiously freckled if one took the time to notice, and her eyes were a particularly indulgent shade with a tendency towards being perceptive. Lesser men might be intimidated by her intelligence, which shown in the amber depths, but the proudest would hunt her to the ends of the earth. He'd heard many—even from his own house—claim a fancy to her. It had disgusted him, once, but now he knew her charm was founded.

Paired with her magic, were she not a Muggleborn, he imagined she would have many suitors. Her stature was slight, but she was also formidable, with a Gryffindor brazenness that might compel others to be wary of her. Paired with her bossiness, her magic was equally astounding. Spells came easier for her than they ever had for her classmates from what he heard from the other professors, who were more prone to see her cast magic than use it for potions as he did. Normally, he would brush off their exaggerations, but he could now agree that their claims were true. Having heard it himself, he knew her magic to be strong.

Some might attribute her power to diligence, but that was a foolish assumption. She was good with magic for other reasons… as natural of a witch as Lily Evans had been, Muggleborn or not.

The thought caused him to grimace, leaving him burdened by the memory of the girl, rather than the woman, wielding her wand a day after receiving it and letting it rain sparks on his head. He'd frowned at her when she had done it. Even to this day, he could not fathom how could she be so _casual_ and carefree sometimes, when he had never felt like that in all his life. Of course, Lily Evans had maintained that carefree nature well beyond her young years, much like Miss Granger had. Yet she, too, had been powerful and worthy of praise, in his eyes, for her magical prowess.

She'd been less insufferable, yes, but there was a striking similarity in the concoction of intelligence and beauty and kindness and _casualness_ woven into their personalities. The thought disturbed him.

What disturbed him more was Miss Granger's sadness and the way it seemed to have wrapped itself around her like a cloud, drawing the light away from her eyes, and leaving her less golden than he remembered her. In fact, the frown she wore reminded him of his own… strict and unmoving. There was not a carefree bone in her body, that day, as if the rain had weighed her down physically, mentally, and emotionally. More likely, it were her own thoughts with anchored her. All the same she seemed burdened by great, ominous thoughts, further solidified by the dampness of her person.

He'd never seen this Miss Granger before; had never fathomed she would ever appear before him. Even when she'd first lost her magic, she had not slipped this far into hopelessness. With one look, he knew that the words he had intended for her would not have had the effect he had hoped—they would have sent her drifting deeper into the whirlwind of despair that now trapped her... he knew, because he had been there himself many a time.

It was not easy for him to admit, but he sympathized with her. Back when he was young, slightly older than her, when his world had been shattered and undone, such a sadness had taken form in in furious bouts of anger and an unhealthy, raging self-deprecation. The slightest words had sent him spinning, furious, unforgiving, angry—the world had could have dropped everything he had ever wanted at his feet and he would have cursed it all for the sake of it. Such was his loneliness, that he had damned himself to hell and back and had been willing to take down any single one who dared step into his path and convince him differently. When he wasn't angry, he drowned himself in drink, in Dreamless sleep, with drugs... women, sometimes.

Mostly drugs.

For her, however, these feelings led her to a similar despondence as he had felt when he turned into himself, rather than outward with anger.

Although he knew it maudlin, he could not bring himself to harp on her for her faults this night. There was another way, he determined, rather than rifling through her mind to find her magic himself, or castigating her to find it herself. It was unbecoming of his nature, but as he trailed behind her miserable form, he thought of Poppy and her plea...

 _Something different._

He stopped following her, pondering the notion that perhaps her magic could be coaxed alive—hadn't she nearly done so that first day, when he had cloaked himself in shadows and asked her to find him? Hadn't that worked, in some way? Would it work again?

It was then that Miss Granger sensed him. She stopped walking, pausing purposefully. Instinctively, he held his breath, waiting for her reaction, for a sign that she was merely catching her breath or waiting for the staircases to shift.

She did not move, and her amber eyes focused on the ground, towards her feet. Severus could tell by the tenseness in her shoulders that she was listening to every sound that the castle offered. So far, the world around them was quieter than he could ever think it could be. Her self-clutching loosened slightly and she turned ever so slightly towards the wall, ears open despite the silence. Her eyes lifted, eventually, nearly catching sight of him. Luckily, he was trained in stealth and had increased the Disillusionment with his own wand.

Her eyes trailed right over him, as if he did not exist at all, but did not stop seeking even after a long, pregnant moment. She knew something was there, but she could not discern what it was. From what he could see, she was debating whether or not she was imagining things or if her instincts were calling out to her. As she pondered the empty corridor, the heavy silver ring on his finger began to warm.

He had no time to rationalize such a thought—the castle was not as sentient as he had once believed it to be, but he was beginning to think it was dictating his actions more than it ever had—but acted before the Sigil could harm him permanently. His wand sent a spell spinning for the wall, near her, but not near enough to strike her. When it hit the stone, the sound erupted through the silence that had cloaked them both, seemingly drawn out for all eternity in echoes that made him feel as if they were the only souls left in the castle.

If he were a more believing man, he would have noticed the way the stone absorbed his spell with a lingering silver glow. He was, instead, focused on the corporeal woman in front of him, trying to gauge her next moves.

"Professor Snape?" she murmured questioningly, although he suspected in her mind she had decided she was not in immediate danger.

He was both mildly perplexed and slightly annoyed that she knew it was him. Perhaps he was losing his touch?

It was more likely that she simply expected this sort of thing from him, after their first lesson.

He circled her, evaluating her stance as he had then, as well. She stood as if preparing for a duel, but was, as she had stated then, quite wandless. Obviously missing the weight of her weapon, her slender fingers, far from milky or coated in blood as they had been from his gruesome memories, tickled the air as her eyes trailed in front of her, searching and flexing and empty. Although without her wand, she did not cower, perhaps remembering his reminder that she had other weapons at her disposal.

As he walked towards her, her eyes fluttered closed. Her body moved to face him with every step, despite her blindness. She seemed to falter for a moment, then began to turn towards him, following him with her body in a revolution as he circled and approached her. Black eyes never left her face as he ascended towards her, winding around her like a snake would constrict around its prey. Still, she did not seem wary of him as one might be wary of such a predator. In fact, from the calmness on her face, she seemed welcoming—more peaceful than he had seen her in a week, at least, willing to lure him closer and closer towards her. Eventually, she did not follow him with her body, but allowed him to head towards her in a straight, determined line.

When he was almost upon her, compelled to reach for her and yank her from her stupor, the girl suddenly tilted her body in the exact angle to face perfectly away from him. He frowned at her back as she began to drift forward, apparently compelled towards something—perhaps believing it to be him?

Irritated, he trailed behind her, making sure to remain undetected.

She led him towards the wall of the corridor, her steps small and uncertain, no doubt as her eyes were closed and she could not see and she was not allowing her magic to lead her. He bit back the urge to tell her to trust her compulsions, but instead he gripped his wand tighter, pondering whether a hex or a jinx would suit her better for forgetting his lessons so soon after having been graced with them.

To his surprise, however, she sidestepped suddenly when he cast the harmless stinging jinx without sound. The flash of light was absorbed instead by the suit of armor in front of him. He was too stunned at first to realize she had not only escaped his spell, but had also _tricked_ him, that he failed to realize the suit of armor was surging to life, shaking his rusty elbows and groaning.

Accosted, the beast turned his head and clattered a gauntlet wordlessly towards him. After dodging the jutting metal as it whizzed past his head, Severus seamlessly sent an immobilization curse to the suit, sending it back into a harmless if intimidatingly aggressive stance.

He summoned the gauntlet back into place, resisting the urge to blow the whole thing to pieces. If they weren't guardians of the castle, he would have done so. Still, he unceremoniously sent a hex at the thing, smirking when the beast quivered under the binding that had been cast over him. Only when it stilled completely, lulled back to non-consciousness did he turn his back to it.

"While your actions to lead me to hex myself were... mildly impressive, Miss Granger," he began to lecture as he turned to face her again, "You should have known the suit was not reflective. Had I been a Death Eater—"

His eyes found her and he stopped speaking. Miss Granger stood waiting, her shoulders heaving. Her eyes were wide, shocked—her mouth was slightly gaping and she seemed frozen in place, as if she had forgotten how to move. His immediate thought was that she was suffering an attack and he was at her side instantly. Without a beat, he lifted his wand to cast a diagnostic when he realized that her eyes were coming undone in that way that they did when she was escaping the Divide.

He stilled, wondering if she had somehow reigned in her magic and was controlling it.

Almost instantly, she came to, her face melting effortlessly into the most excited expression he had ever seen her wear. For a moment, he feared she might even embrace him—the steps she took towards him, however, abruptly stopped, as if she had realized what she had been doing and refrained. Thankfully, she had, as he had been too stunned to stop her himself.

The girl blushed garishly, before stuttering excitedly "I… I think… Professor?"

He ignored her, gathering his wits before casting a quick diagnostic for good measure. It illuminated her face, casting a dull golden glow over her, bringing to life the freckles that were sometimes lost in her golden-hued skin. Her amber eyes did not close, letting the darkened color turn liquid amber, eager as ever to witness new magic.

When the spell hit her, she shivered. The runes that hovered in front of her spun rapidly, as it was not what he cared to see. He waved a hand at the pictograph of her circulatory system, and instead continued with the spell he had only created two days before—specifically for this purpose, to analyze her magic should there be a need. It was one that, of course, did not require him listening to her Song, as that was the only way he knew how to visualize magic.

It was obviously not perfected. The image was faded, jagged, and wavering, but it was there—the spell worked, revealing a circular window where a figurative fire burned, a figure of his imagination rather than an exact scientific replica. Within the orb was but a single, dwindled ember, hardly alive, but warm enough that Albus would have been hopeful to see it even flicker.

To his relief, her magic was unharmed by her foolish use of inflection without his direct supervision. Granted, he _was_ present, but he had been unprepared to help her should anything have gone awry. Equally to his horror, the Song he had barely heard began to warble alongside the diagnostic, like the trill of a phoenix echoing from afar. It had been unintended on his part, but he supposed no spell cast in such haste without practice would be excellent.

As they both stood shell-shocked, he allowed the sound of her magic fall over him, comforted by the soothing notes he had thought he had heard centuries ago, yet knew was foreign to his ears by the way it made his heart beat so quickly. The first notes continued well beyond what he had been privy to before, each chord drawing him further into a state of stunned silence.

Of course, she knew what it was at once... she _had_ heard it all her life. After the initial shock of the first notes, she gasped in delight, "My magic!"

Although he imagined it as a trailing violin, he knew that it was much, much more than that—right now, her Song was dulled and confined, limited to a singe instrument, but should she find it again, he could only imagine what beauty it would hold... what grand, weaving sounds it would have!

It would be a symphony rivaling his own, yet far lighter and gentler than his ever was, lacking any of the darkness and sadness that plagued him. Still, when he listened harder, he could catch notes of trembling melancholy, subtle and hidden from the world. While she was bright and shiny on the outside, there were deeper emotions yet unseen by him or others, hidden in shadows just like he was.

Ashamed with himself, he tightened his jaw. She had not noticed his moment of weakness, as she was too absorbed in her own excitement. When he opened his eyes, as they had been compelled closed to listen harder, she was pacing and gesturing wildly with her hands.

"That was it—the Song… the Song is my magic! But, of course, you've said that before," she muttered as he glared at her vibrating form, "But to hear it and feel it all at once... how _magical._ "

She stopped, listened to her words, then grinned stupidly, shaking her head at her Muggle use of the word.

As she stepped away from him then, consumed by an emotion he could only describe as elation—perhaps hysteria-he watched her with narrowed eyes. Her body passed through the window of her magic that was now rapidly waning. She stood there, in its borders, as if it were more than air... as if she were absorbing the ember itself through her skin.

He looked away, burdened by the expression of slight sadness she wore when she stepped away and the pictograph remained for a moment longer and then promptly died.

Even though it was gone, her hands lifted, tracing an area of her body, her eyes widening as if she could sense something within. From the smile that widened over her lips, he had no doubt the feeling of her magic had returned, and that even though she could no longer see the image he had created, it remained.

Stunned by the strange turn of events, he felt his emotions begin to recede behind the fog, mechanically hiding them from himself so he would not betray them to her. When her amber eyes found him again, he felt them pierce through the walls he was building, as if she could see him for what he truly was…

It was unnerving, to say the least.

She gave no indication that she noticed his discomfort. Impervious, also, to his frowning expression, she instead began to breathlessly chant her disbelief, "I can't believe it… I've done it! I've found it. Look, Professor—"

She stepped through the Divide with ease, and turned to him, existing in both places at once by the glaze in her eyes. Her hands found her magic, curving just above her navel, as if she could cradle it through her flesh. His own magic jerked in his chest in response, a hot pool of honey, expanding... straining to find hers.

Burdened by his unintentional response, he clenched his teeth, trying to push it away. His ring burned irritatingly, drawing his concentration away from him, leaving him confounded and forcing him to endure her foolishness once more.

He clenched his fist so tight that the sensation was swallowed, refusing to acknowledge it.

"At the pace you have set for yourself, Miss Granger," he managed to hiss, "Who would have thought it possible? If you had any self-respect, it would have been found weeks ago, but, by all means, celebrate as if the earth has moved at your will. I, however, remain unimpressed."

Rather than darken her features, his words only brightened them, "You're right, sir. Only with your help could I have ever done it. Thank you! _Thank_ _you_. Because of _you,_ I have hope... _we_ have hope."

He had no idea how to handle such praise. Rather like when Albus complimented him, his instinctual reaction was to sneer, to fight the blush that was no doubt burgeoning. He'd never been complimented very often and to hear it always left him with an uncomfortable buzzing in his throat.

"Thank you," she murmured again, as if he had not heard her the first time.

He sneered, "Swallow your gratitude. I expect that from now on there will be progress and effort not only on my end, but yours as well."

Her lips twitched, but she said nothing, only nodded.

As if knowing exactly how to perturb him further, she suddenly blurted, "Gods, I feel like I could eat a hippogriff!"

He must have gaped, because she suddenly began to laugh... light, melodious laughter, with tears that gathered in her eyes and made her cheeks turn pink, and then red as she laughed further.

Knowing Gryffindor tendencies to hug, he turned his back to her, unwilling to participate in her ridiculous displays. She did not follow him as he abandoned her, but the echo of her delighted laugh as he left haunted him all the way to the dungeons.

Had he ever been so excited in all his life? He could not recall a single memory of such euphoria… even when Lily was alive, he hadn't been swayed to such bliss in all his years. He could not remember a time that he had ever had his spirits lifted so quickly after feeling so downtrodden...

Had he done that for Miss Granger? Or had it been her own doing?

Was she mad? Or was this normal? How could anyone feel such happiness, so suddenly... or ever, at all?

And, even more perplexing, how could someone feel so happy because of something he had done?

The choice he had made seemed so trivial to him... and yet, it had made all the difference to her.

Frowning, he realized that the echo of emotion left behind by the sound of her Song came frighteningly close to the same euphoria. He'd once thought it glimmered of hope, but he also wondered if somehow, it was happiness, too. Were they the same? He did not have the experience to know the difference.

The small, confused smile he had been wearing was gone from his face at that. Thoughts dark, he collapsed onto the sofa, too involved in the future to realize his back had ceased to ache or that the ring at his finger seemed to be pulsing in a now suddenly familiar rhythm.

·

Hermione did not return to the tower immediately.

She did indeed head for the seventh floor, but when she found it she could not bring herself to provide the password to the Fat Lady. Instead, she paced down a familiar corridor, reveling in the sensation of warmth in her chest. Although it was her hands, itching for magic despite her wandlessness, which were aching to exert energy, she walked and walked, turning around when she found herself at the end of the corridor and returning to repeat the pattern.

How had she felt so useless an hour before, and now was more alive than she had been all summer? It was a conundrum she dared not name, so she thought little of it and paced.

How strange Professor Snape might think her—probably deranged, and a bit mentally unstable, but the sound of the Song was… euphoric. The first notes had been strong in her memory, but the rest had all been lost in the haze of despair she had begun to surround herself in.

Now that she had heard them in completion once more, she felt as if she needed to hear them again, a hundred, a thousand times… always, forever, and while using them to guide her magic.

Every note was precious and important, that she knew—and especially in making her magic once again her own.

She also did not dare breach the Divide to hear it fully, unless she hoped to incur Snape's wrath. Because of this, she could not feel had magic as intensely as she had when inflecting, but it was there, always, a single, flickering ember as Professor Snape had shown her, if muted in comparison. Although she ached to taste it fully, she was satisfied with the dull weight in her belly that marked its return, and knew she would feel it fully their next lesson.

Oh, what a difference his help had made! Any thought of his disappointment in her was gone, replaced by praise for his cunning effort to coax it into her sights. She had not even realized how skeptical she had been that it was not there until seeing it had made all her doubts melt away... simple confidence was all she had needed.

It was terribly embarrassing that she had required such an exercise to make her realize it did still exist. And truly, it had been there all along—hidden, not lost.

Although she had not realized it, and doubted Snape had either, the inflection in her mind would have led her deeper and farther away from her magic. Her subconscious had tried to reason her away from finding it, to protect her harming herself again... just like her magic had tried to quell the curse until it exhausted herself, her mind was determined to keep her breathing and living. Of course, it was logical that it would try to preserve her life, even if being magicless felt like death to her irrational conscious mind. She couldn't help but wonder, however, if her logic was beginning to turn her world upside down.

How was it that her magic was not a single entity to be found, but a living, moving system inside her that existed everywhere at every waking moment?

She determined that now that she knew it, truly, it could never be hidden from her again, no matter how logical it would be to do so, because it was as much a part of her body as it was a part of her soul.

Professor Snape had said that her magic was not an object to be traced. He had told her that the Magical Core was not scientific fact, but she had ignored him because she had read so many text which attributed it as the source of magic. And although hers was but a single ember, concentrated in her diaphragm, if she wanted to it could burst through every cell of her body with a single thought… given the strength, of course, and the need. He had been right, of course. She had been ignorant, but no more.

Unfortunately, she did not have such strength, although she felt like she could fight a thousand mountain trolls from the happiness she felt. She had a need for it, though, as evidence in her aching fingers. She, however, knew to exercise it might mean her death and thus resigned herself to pace until she was exhausted.

A flicker of movement distracted her pacing. Hermione looked up, half-expecting to find Peeves or maybe Dobby, but instead was faced with a creaking familiar door: it was the Room of Requirement, urging her within.

She glanced around at the castle walls that surrounded her protectively, then smiled and entered without a second thought. For some reason, she felt Hogwarts was on her side… if that were possible.

The smile she wore grew larger when her suspicions were confirmed. She darted towards the piano which waited in the center of the room, paying little attention to anything else. Her fingers darted across the keys, then slowed as she tried to find the notes she had heard as clearly as if they were plucked from a violin.

It was far from pretty or what she had intended, but she still smiled, relishing in the sounds of hammers against chords.

Somewhere, her grandmother was cringing in her grave, remembering how awfully she'd played in her youth (and hearing now how awful she still did play), but she could not deny it was therapeutic. With great happiness, she sat in front of the instrument, putting her restless fingers to work, unwilling to leave until she had played the first handful of notes from her memory at least a hundred times.


	15. Vows

**A/N: More Dialogue... yay!** **I hope you like it...**

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Chapter Fifteen  
Vows

* * *

Hermione traced a weary finger over the twin serpentine letters of Professor Snape's signature, written in his characteristically cramped spidery script.

 _I will be indisposed this afternoon. You are excused from our appointment_ — _SS_

As usual, the scroll twirled into nonexistence moments later. When she sighed at its absence, the nurse looked her over critically from her perch across her office desk, "Is everything alright, dear?"

"Yes," she replied honestly, although she was slightly off put to have their meeting cancelled, "Just disappointed that I won't be able to get my wand tonight."

Something in the mediwitch's gray green eyes seemed troubled, but she softened almost instantly when Hermione frowned deeply.

"Well, at least you found your magic," she reminded her with a _tsk_ of her tongue.

Yes, she _was_ grateful for that fact—as if the magic inside her was gladdened, she felt a warmth of song in her heart. She knew it was more than her imagination, and so she smiled warmly, "Yes, it is… Thank you."

"Well... you are welcome, but..." the nurse reminded her, "I fear I warrant no dues in that aspect, as I am no longer in charge of your care. Granted, I doubt Severus would be inclined to accept any notion of gratitude, however warranted—at least not without suspicion."

Hermione stilled at the mention of the potions master. She felt a familiar stirring of... well, curiosity. After the previous night, she knew that it was more than that. And while curiosity was one thing, obsession was quite another. At this point in her... relationship with the man, she was certainly tiptoeing the thin line that was drawn (quite clearly by the wizard in question) between them, if she hadn't crossed it already.

More and more, her thoughts strayed to him often, if only because she was uncertain where her devotion to him would lead her. Now that she had seen a glimpse of the man behind the mask, she vowed that she would find him again.

"Madam Pomfrey?"

"Yes, child?"

"Do you… do you worry about him?"

"About who, dear?"

"Professor Snape."

"Of all people, I understand how difficult Professor Snape can be, but…" the nurse cleared her throat, "he _is_ invested in your recovery, if that's what you are asking."

"No… I know that," although he admitted discomfort with his involvement, his young patient had begun to see that the way he interacted around others was quite different than the way he interacted with her privately: still mean, still brooding, but not cruel... not quite, at least. It was probably a long shot, but she couldn't help but wonder if... well.

Guiltily, Hermione pondered her hands—why did it matter whether he cared about her or not?

 _Because you care about him… and why? Why_ him _?_

"What I meant was… do you worry about his, erm, well-being?"

The nurse seemed uncomfortable, "I would be lying if I said no, that I do not, but it has not always been that way… I fear I have only just recently begun to see him in a new light, if you would. I have known him since he was a boy and he has never been... easy to love, for lack of a better phrase."

Hermione bowed her head, hiding the twitch of a frown at her lips from the nurse. They were all guilty of demonizing him—that was what his mask had aimed to achieve, hadn't it?

"Why?" She could feel her teeth biting at the flesh of the inside of her cheek, "I mean... why is he so difficult? Is it because of the war, or—"

The nurse bristled, "These are matters that should be discussed with Professor Snape, not me."

Her patient fiddled with the quill in her hands—she'd been hand-writing Madam Pomfrey's inventory for her—simply trying to feel useful, "I know, but… there's no one else I can talk to about him. Harry and Ron wouldn't understand and they don't particularly care for… Anyway, I can't help it. I just… wonder about him, when he's, er… absent," the girl admitted with a toss of her hands in the air in frustration, "I find myself worrying whether or not he is safe—"

"In war, no one of is safe, Miss Granger," the nurse's mouth was set in a firm line and her eyes were looking through the windows, over the grounds, "You lack the experience to have accepted this fact, but I have endured more of it than I care to. You cannot worry for everyone, every second, or you will have no time left to enjoy your life, and that is as good as letting You-Know-Who win."

"I'm beginning to understand that," Hermione admitted. She wrung her hands. She should drop the subject. Her mouth, however, did not agree with her.

Still, the distress must have been evident, as the nurse sighed, "Given recent events—well, you know much more than you should about Severus' current… position, already, or else you would not be so worried about him... god knows, there are few who do besides."

 _If any at all._

"His belonging to the Order, you mean? Or…"

Poppy made a small frown, and the younger witch refrained from mentioning out loud that they both knew he was a Death Eater spy.

It was then that Hermione realized that she had not ever seen the mediwitch at any Order meetings—despite her allegiance to Dumbledore. Then again, not every Hogwarts staff member belonged to the rebellious magical militia. She had not seen Flitwick, nor Sinistra, nor Trelawney… in fact, the only one she had seen was McGonagall, and Hagrid, of course. Lovable, brave Hagrid.

The living opposite of Severus Snape—and yet, she'd never heard him speak an unkind word of the man... nor vice versa.

Hermione could feel the nurse pulling away from her, so she changed the topic, knowing better than to push her luck, "Are you in the Order, Madam Pomfrey?"

"You know I am not."

It would be rude to question why, but the nurse offered an answer all the same a heartbeat later.

"I'm a healer, not a fighter, Miss Granger, and while I will happily assist any Order member who comes to me in need of medical attention, my vow was made to Hogwarts and to her _current_ students. You and your classmates are my priority, no matter how attached I may be too many of my former students who do belong to the Order."

Hermione nodded, "But isn't the castle a symbol of our strength… just as much as the ministry? It is perhaps the safest place in Britain, or so I have read."

"It is as such because you students should be kept as far from war as humanly possible," the nurse frowned, and Hermione knew she was thinking about the battle at the ministry in which she had been involved, "I cannot protect the children and the rest of our world without consequence to the innocents who have every right to my attentions. Am I not burdened enough as it is trying to keep Mr. Potter from succumbing to death by bludgers? Let alone all manner of other unfortunate tragedies that he's endured... To juggle both treatment of him, the hundreds of other students, and our dedicated Order members would be too much for my abilities, however skilled I may be. It would not be fair to you and your classmates to serve both, and I am not ashamed to admit it."

Her younger audience sobered, understanding. Hoping the nurse did not think she would think less of her, she nodded in agreement. Of course, Hermione could sympathize that not everyone was destined for the trenches of the war, "I hadn't considered how hard it would be for someone… to join the Order."

"It is never easy to fight a war, let alone one like this. I sympathize with our friends, but it is their choice... if they find peace in it, so mote it be."

Something about the way her eyes narrowed made Hermione feel as if she knew where she would stand, given the choice. She deflected her scrutiny with a sincere compliment, "The school is lucky to have you, Madam Pomfrey."

She was not so easily swayed, it seemed. Her frown deepened.

"I do worry for them... our Order members, but I admit that a part of me is also wary to aid them, besides my vow to Hogwarts. Many healers who wish to become involved in war, particularly this war, do not live to see the end... And although fifteen years have passed since You-Know-Who's first reign of terror, many of us can remember a time when aiding the wrong person could cause more harm than healing—for many of us, our duty could mean life or death simply because we aided one side or the other."

Hermione's eyes widened, "But… but it's your duty to heal. How can—"

"One does not rationalize with mad men, Miss Granger," the nurse said sadly, "I had many friends... family, even, who agreed to take in Death Eaters and heal them. Those who wanted to recant from their servitude would seek out certain healers willing to avert their eyes from the Mark. Whatever their reason, whether simply for the sake of it, because of their duty to the art, and most often for large sums of money, they risked their lives to heal. "

Hermione couldn't fathom… the cloud of gloom was beginning to return, and so soon after she had dispelled it the day before, "And those who helped the Order?"

Madam Pomfrey grimaced, "Of course they were threatened, or worse. I cannot recall a single name of any of the healers alive today that were once associated with Dumbledore's Order. The few whom I knew for certain were involved deeply as healers were all killed or have since left the country."

"How awful…" the younger witch mulled that information over with a heavy heart. She could not remember meeting any healers in the Order, although she did remember Molly Weasley acting as a surrogate of sorts. They had not endured any real battles, at least not until the ministry... considering she and the rest had ended up in the Hogwarts infirmary instead of Grimmauld Place, she could only assume that they were obviously lacking in that aspect.

And Madam Pomfrey was probably now a target thanks to their idiocy.

 _If I earned my magic back, could I…_

That was the ruse, after all, wasn't it? She might as well make do with the training she was supposed to be receiving… if she could manage to, somehow, heal herself first. The headmaster would probably enjoy such an offer and encourage her to train as needed, with or without her magic.

"It must be difficult for him to manage," Hermione mused, "Headmaster Dumbledore, that is."

The mediwitch snorted derisively, "Difficult? Surely, but do not pity the man. He does himself no favors."

Hermione blinked. She was surprised the witch would show such candor.

Madam Pomfrey scoffed, "Surely, you agree that a headmaster would not typically be a war general, unless he designed himself to be?"

Her concerned eyes trailing over the Gryffindor's puzzled expression.

"... But isn't it in the best interest of the students that he oppose Vold… You-Know-Who?"

"In many ways, yes. There is no other wizard in Britain who could garner as much confidence and admiration as Albus can. Because of this, it is expected that he be more than the headmaster… and while I do believe that the children are in his mind always, he has never been able to give them his full attention—not with all of his other _duties_."

"I imagine it would be hard to live normally… after Grindelwald. He must feel an obligation to protect the world from wizards like him."

"Old habits die hard, especially for old men. As I said, he deserves no pity—he wouldn't be able to sit back idly if he wanted, the stubborn cod."

Hermione's lips quirked—it was something she might have heard Professor McGonagall say, when she was giving her advice... would she be in this office at this moment, if it weren't for Professor Snape's help?

Pomfrey straightened and continued, even as her patient's thoughts began to drift far away, "Regardless, the war, too often, ends up bleeding into this castle... it is a cause of great concern for me."

It was true. Although one could fault Harry for drawing the attention, perhaps it had more to do with Dumbledore than she had originally thought. Or perhaps Hogwarts was simply a glutton for punishment.

"Although I have made my point, we should all be grateful that he, of all wizards, opposes such horrible beliefs as You-Know-Who's," Poppy seemed guilty of her gossiping, "I cannot deny that if anyone is capable of protecting this castle, it is Albus."

Hermione bit her lip, letting the nurse continue to rant… her mind, however, was elsewhere, straining to remember.

Something important was whispering to her gently a faint memory, or perhaps a dream... where the raven-haired spy sat at the head of the Hogwarts table, rather than his silver-bearded counterpart.

But although definitely Severus Snape, the man who sat in Dumbledore's place was not so familiar. Gone was the too-long, greasy hair, replaced with clean, trimmed locks that just brushed his jaw-line. His skin was pale, but not sallow, and glowing in the candles rather than waning like wax… his clothing was dark, but not monotone black. Furthermore, the weight of them did not hang from his skin like the billows of a dementor's cloak, but cloaked him in a hazing halo of dark wool. In his face, there was confidence rather than arrogance, and there was an easiness to his shoulders that suggested that he was a spy no longer.

Of course, he remained dignified, cutting such a strict and imposing figure in dark clothing and a contrast of white, pale skin. Who wouldn't be striking with the bone structure that he had? But at least he looked healthy—happy, perhaps, if he could feel such an emotion. And oh, what an emotion could do for his appearance... daunting, but not un-handsome.

Hermione found her stomach spinning somersaults when she wondered what it was that had made him appear so at ease, so... _human._

She did not look away, and, eventually, he felt her gaze. There was no anger when their eyes met, although Hermione could detect a hint of bemusement at the quirking of his lips and brow. Before she could decide to look away, to hide beneath her curls, he had lifted his glass in mock toast to her.

Numbly, she did not hesitate to match it with a tilt of her own, not knowing exactly why she was responding in such a way and with such ease. After taking a mischievious sip of drink together, the smile he wore was unexpected, yet beautiful—familiar, although she'd never seen him wear it ever before.

He didn't face her with it for long, but even when he turned away, she knew the burning glow in his eyes was still meant for her.

 _What in Merlin's_ —

"You're faraway," the nurse interrupted, "Are you feeling well?"

"I'm not sure," Hermione admitted honestly, shivering, "Just daydreaming, I think."

"Ah… well, I suppose I've bored you long enough with my morose talk," the nurse waved her away, "Take this before you go, my dear—it will help with your chill. I've been no help in that aspect, today, have I?"

"Don't be ridiculous... I enjoy your company."

She took the chocolate the nurse offered. Neither it nor the beaming expression were necessarily needed, however… it had been enough to see Severus Snape smiling from his rightful place as Headmaster of Hogwarts, looking out at the students— his students.

Although she didn't quite know why, she knew that he would be suited for the position. If he would die to protect her, a worthless Mudblood, he would surely die for any of the others… but was that all they could hope for in a headmaster? Someone who would sacrifice themselves to save them? Someone who would die for them?

Maybe, just maybe, he could live for them, instead...

If someone were able to show him how.

·

" _You will need your wand, Bellatrix, and you will need to move a little closer._ "

" _Will you, Severus, watch over my son, Draco, as he attempts to fulfill the Dark Lord's wishes?_ "

" _I will._ "

" _And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from harm?_ "

" _I will._ "

" _And should it prove necessary... if it seems Draco will fail... will you carry out the deed that the Dark Lord has ordered Draco to perform?_ "

" _I will._ "

When the two demanding witches were gone, Severus lingered in the cramped, damp sitting room of his childhood, musing over the strange circumstances of the visit of Narcissa and Bellatrix Black.

The information was enough to make him queasy. Luckily, the mildew of Spinner's End drowned out the tang of dark magic that followed Bella. For once in his life, his hellhole of a childhood home had spared him a catalyst to his growing mental instability. If he had smelt her even once after she was gone, he might have retched—or worse, maybe he would have killed her.

 _Could that be considered worse?_

 _Perhaps not._

 _Gods,_ if she hadn't been in Narcissa's company, he could imagine it being difficult to resist stifling her magic forever—heavens forbid, the Dark Lord would kill him, but the odds of Potter winning would be double without the bitch waiting around every corner to curse them all into oblivion.

Shockingly, today Bellatrix was the least of his problems. Although she certainly had had her part, she could have been far more difficult than she had been. For Bella she had been almost _civil,_ and that was the first sign that something was wrong. He knew that this was the Dark Lord's bidding, if only because of how tamely she had behaved. It might not have been his intention for Severus to be involved, be he would likely be pleased by such a notion… he had perhaps he had even predicted that Narcissa would turn to him for assistance and maybe, maybe he had compelled Bella to suggest the act of treason to her sister.

The blonde Black sister was so isolated without her husband, who else would she have to turn to besides Lucius' half-blood confidante? Bellatrix did not have a motherly bone in her body, why would she care if Draco failed or not? That left his mother, alone, to worry about him... And no matter how much Narcissa hated Severus (although he often thought of it as not caring for him rather than wasting such emotions), she would do anything to protect him, even confide in her husband's filthy, poor, ugly compatriot.

 _Sweet Circe,_ how had he not seen it sooner?

Bella had nearly revealed the plan that night she had whipped him for _her_ failures. She'd wanted him to know because somehow through the fog of her twisted, sick mind she could see him more clearly than any of his brothers—could smell him for the traitor that he was. The words had been spoken, dangled like little treats in front of his nose, but he had not snatched at them, because his thoughts had been on other things: Miss Granger, mostly.

Narcissa had been trying to corner him for weeks... and he'd avoided her, thinking it had been all about Lucius. If he had known—

 _You are a blind fool._

Even the dark lord, too, had hinted of it… when they had discussed Miss Granger and her status as a healer, he had spoken of Dumbledore's demise. To hear him speak of the event was commonplace, except for a spy, who should have known when those musings instead became carefully designed plans of which Draco Malfoy was the star participant.

He had to give it to the dark lord. It was a fitting task for inclusion into the Inner Circle—both worthy of the grandeur that followed House Malfoy and able to confirm the complete devotion that Lord Voldemort demanded of his followers in the pureblood progeny. It was doubly beneficial to the dark lord, because if Lucius' son could not commit, then their line would end with him: no Malfoy could ever shame him again.

"Fuck," he muttered aloud, wondering how, in all versions of hell, he was supposed to get untwisted from this web.

Albus would more than likely be displeased at the prospect… scratch that, he would likely be _furious_. Severus had just agreed to help Draco Malfoy kill him, after all—who wouldn't be angry? But it wasn't the possibility of being killed that would make him mad. It would be the fact that it wouldn't be how he had designed it to be, considering the meddling man had probably planned his death decades ago. There was no possible way, however, that he could not have foreseen _this._

And if he had, Severus would happily kill him for the brat, Vow or not.

It was perhaps ironic timing, as Albus was already dying. And wouldn't it just throw a jinx in the entire plan if he were to die of his own accord before Draco could do the deed?

Would that be considered a failure to uphold his Vow?

"Fuck," he repeated again.

His life be damned, but he knew that if there was one thing he valued more than his "friendship" with the headmaster, it was his ability to protect his godson. He would not have change his decision given the chance to.

Besides, in the grand scheme of things and his status with the boy disregarded, his choice was the right one to begin with. He could not have denied the Black sisters' proposal even if he had wanted to, knowing what he did about Albus' health. Secondly, if he had denied it, Bellatrix would have fuel against him to prove to the dark lord that he was a double-crossing half-blood. Narcissa, a possible ally in the future, would have never turned to him again, damning herself further than she already had.

Draco would likely be killed before his seventeenth birthday, even if he was able to muster up the evil to kill in cold blood.

Now, if he failed or died before he could succeed, Severus, too, would die for failing to uphold the Vow.

"Fuck," for the third time, his voice echoed through the lonely halls of Spinner's End.

When he stood, he headed for the dusty liquor cabinet. He hadn't delved within since the previous Christmas, after his fight with Sirius rudding Black. Reminded that the dog was dead, he added two more fingers to the tumbler he'd barely scourgified. So soon after news of Albus' failing health, his thirst for drink had begun to outweigh his devotion to his duty.

Like his father, he preferred whiskey—the more Muggle, the better.

·

"Ah, Miss Granger… it's good to see you healthy and hungry, my dear."

"Thank you, professor," she replied softly to the headmaster, feeling sort of shy in his presence. They did not interact as often as he had with Harry, or even Ron, whose parents were members of the Order.

In order to avoid his shriveled arm, she kept her eyes trained on his face. It was lined with age and wisdom and she could not help but notice that the wrinkles were deeper than she had ever seen them. Strangely, his blue irises seemed clear despite him having recently been under a dark curse. Not for the first time, she wondered what had been the nature of the spell, and if it affected him still.

It was only then, in the bliss of having just heard her Song again, that she thought perhaps she'd been wrong—maybe Snape's rage was the product of some other mysterious circumstance. After all, how could a man appear so calmly if he were suffering so much?

But, she argued, Snape suffered every moment, didn't he? While not particularly kind, he was typically the very picture of cool and collected… at least, when Harry wasn't breathing in the vicinity.

"I had heard the good news—what a wonder it is that you can manage such a feat that so many wizards cannot. You are so very fortunate that you have the rare ability to visualize your magic."

Hermione blushed, "Thank you, sir, but being capable is not enough. I am especially fortunate for Professor Snape, who has trained me to make use of my capability."

The headmaster's eyes twinkled brighter, "Indeed… and where is our dear potions master this evening?"

 _As if you don't know_ , the younger Gryffindor told herself, having assumed he had taken a meeting with Voldemort or was enduring some task for the dark lord. Still, his puzzled expression was unsettling.

"He has not been seen since this afternoon," the nurse said, warily glancing at Hermione.

"Ah, of course," the headmaster noted, putting down his fork and stroking his beard. The Gryffindor witch noticed him curls his thumb inward, twisting the ring around his other finger with it, "I cannot fault him for enjoying his holiday. I long for the days when I was a mere professor, myself, and could reap such luxuries."

Madam Pomfrey rolled her eyes, but Hermione wasn't as amused as she might have been.

It hadn't occurred to her that perhaps he was enjoying his holiday. The twinge of jealousy she felt that he had shirked her for his own amusement shamed her, and she bowed her head thoughtfully over her plate as she analyzed why in the world she would feel such a way.

She'd been worried he was amongst Death Eaters all day, and now she knew he was not. She should have been relieved… and she was, mostly.

But she was also slightly put off... especially since she could detect a hint of annoyance in the headmaster's tone.

 _So, what is it, Hermione? Are you annoyed that he took advantage of his holiday, or are you offended that the headmaster would think he isn't allowed one?_

 _Both, of course._

 _You are a strange one._

 _Never denied it..._

Thankfully, mediwitch led them away from the topic of the potions master, "Anyway, Albus, how was your meeting with the governors?"

His arm lay at his side as he ate, hidden in his sleeve—all the better, as Hermione did not want to see it, lest she lose her newly found appetite, "Eventful—a few of them have expressed irritation that I have returned to full capacity as headmaster. Not because they believe Voldemort to still be an old witches' tale, but becaause I will not abide by our new minister's demands to once again be able to appoint our next defense instructor."

"Ah," the nurse said, glancing worriedly at Hermione when the girl grunted unceremoniously, "Because that went so favorably the last time."

"No doubt you agree, Miss Granger," the headmaster mused at her frowning expression.

She did not want to think about the toad any longer than she had to, so she just nodded.

Sensing her discomfort, the headmaster waved his healthy hand, "Besides, I've already filled the post... they were not pleased, but I do have a majority vote in such matters."

 _Your choices aren't much better,_ Hermione bemused in memory of Lockhart, Quirrell, Crouch, and even Lupin.

"Oh?" Poppy said with keen interest, "And who might our newest professor be?"

His eyes twinkled, "One who is both new and old, I suppose you could say. But all in good time, my dear… I do so love a Welcoming Feast surprise. Now, tell me, have your stores been replenished?"

"No," Poppy admitted, "But now that Severus has resumed most of the brewing, it is going much quicker."

"I would imagine so."

"And once Miss Granger can receive her wand, I expect soon enough we will be stocked for the year."

"Ah, a fine choice of therapy… potions brewing is such a subtle science, would you agree, Miss Granger? Perfect for soothing one's magic as it requires so little."

"Yes. It is a delicate and precise art. I enjoy it very much."

 _I would enjoy it more if the professor wasn't so..._

 _Hard to please?_

A blush bloomed up her cheeks and she ducked her head to hide it.

"Of course, and it will no doubt be beneficial for you to be exposed to so many medicinal brews. The circumstances are not ideal," he admitted, making no indication that he noticed her hiding beneath her cloud hair, "But I find it an intriguing coincidence—Professor McGonagall confided in me that you showed an interest in healing just before term ended. She is under the impression that you have decided to stay to continue to learn... how grand that you might begin, truly, to experience the field so intimately, as you are progressing so quickly. Could you see yourself continuing in the future—given your health continues to improve?"

Madam Pomfrey's eyes snapped from Hermione to Albus.

Hermione nodded, "I could… but I admit there are other things I still desire for myself, as well."

She could not help, however, but think of the Order and how greatly in need they were of a healer, if Dumbledore were forced to guilt trip Madam Pomfrey. Still, the nurse's eyes narrowed over Albus, as if she suspected him of something dastardly.

"Naturally, you are so young. Have you ever considered a pre-apprenticeship… perhaps making the ruse we have designed to protect you from Voldemort a reality?"

The nurse flinched at the name. Hermione managed to contain her own.

"That would depend on whether or not I can call myself a witch again," she said, honestly and without the self-loathing she might have held the day before, when she could not feel her magic pulse in her diaphragm.

"Miss Granger," the witch interrupted insistently, "You are very much still a witch."

"If you say," she replied, "Why do you ask, Professor Dumbledore?"

"Out of curiosity and necessity, my dear," he said, "I expect we will need all the healers we can get in the coming months… For the students as well as for our dear friends in the Order."

Madam Pomfrey's expression darkened. The headmaster did not acknowledge her expressions, but fluidly changed the subject, "Enough of such talk. It would behoove me if you would grace my old ears with mindless gossip. Without Minerva to feed it to me, I fear I will become out of touch with popular culture."

It took her off guard, but Hermione couldn't hide the giggle that erupted when she realized he was being serious.

She had never argued that the headmaster wasn't a charming man, but to experience him in such an intimate manner was a delight. Granted, she had eaten dinner with him at Grimmauld Place, but his attentions had been so divided those nights that they'd hardly interacted.

Here, she felt like a guest of honor… and almost forgot that she was practically a prisoner within the walls.

The charm, however, unsettled her—was he, too, wearing a mask, just like Professor Snape? What secrets was he hiding behind the glimmer?

Was this his way of gleaning information... of earning people's trust so he could—what, abuse it? Exploit it?

"Without Rolanda, Albus, I fear I, too, am far from updated with the latest gossip," Poppy admitted, although her tone was slightly more clipped than it had been.

"Hm," he turned to the youngest of their odd trio, "You, Miss Granger, are so young and thus more susceptible to the trends of our world. Surely there's a rumor or two worthy of sharing?"

 _Quite a few, no doubt... but I have a feeiing he's fishing for information on Harry._

"Well…" Hermione thought hard. She'd received a few letters from Ginny and surprisingly, Luna, "I'm not exactly a gossip, myself, sir. The juiciest news I have is that Ginny Weasley's finally agreed to date Dean Thomas."

"Really? I had not imagined him for Miss Weasley."

"No?" Hermione pondered, thinking she knew exactly who the headmaster thought would be good for Ginny. She hadn't thought much about Ginny's dating, at all… last year, it had seemed that her attentions had jumped from bloke to bloke. But, for the past month of term, it had been Dean who'd she had been mooning over. But after her visit in the hospital wing with Harry, she did not doubt that there was something between the two, "Who would Ginny date, then?"

"Why, your Mr. Potter, of course."

"Harry?" Hermione wondered in mock surprise.

"Oh, yes," Madam Pomfrey agreed with a glazed smile off in the distance, "She does so remind me of Lily."

"Harry's mum?"

Sure, she had red hair, but... Hermione realized she knew very little about the woman. Intrigued, she watched the reminiscing expressions of her adult companions closely.

"Indeed," the headmaster said, a look of warmth and remembrance shining in the twinkle of his eyes, "I'd always said that if Lily had been born to a wizarding family, she would have fit right in with the Weasleys. Bolder than most, kinder than all... That is, perhaps, why Harry suits their brood so comfortably."

And perhaps why Hermione did not—although the Weasleys were accommodating to her, she had picked up that they were not as accepting of her as they were of Harry. She knew it had nothing to do with her upbringing and more to do with the fact that Mrs. Weasley put too much weight in the Daily Prophet's slandering of her.

Still, it irked her—hadn't she proven that her loyalties were with them, their sons, their daughter, and, of course, with Harry?

She'd begun to realize a pattern, thanks to her inflection, in the way that she thought of herself and allowed others to think of her. Constantly, she was proving her worth to them, as if they could define her by their opinions of her… as if the way they saw her meant more than the way she saw herself. As if her relationships to then were the only value that could be applied to her.

Thinking of the determination she had worn when facing her scar for the first time, she decided that she would not allow it any longer. Her opinion was what mattered the most, not theirs... what she saw was equally as important as what they could see, if not more.

Eventually, she returned to the conversation, but was no longer invested in it. She could not tell if the headmaster was merely striking up conversation or phishing for intel on her friends, and simply wondering about it made her uncomfortable.

Her appetite waned exponentially, especially once the topic of the war was once against tentatively breached, "I have some reading to catch up on if I have any hope of surviving my next Occlumency lesson. If you'll excuse me?"

"Certainly, my dear," the mediwitch smiled at her. Although Professor Snape would have been displeased at her half-empty plate, the nurse thought very little of it as it vanished away… after all, she'd been present that afternoon when Hermione had stuffed her face at lunch.

The headmaster bid her good night, almost stiffly, and she drifted out of the Great Hall.

She considered taking to the grounds, to clear her head of the frustration that had begun to curl her shoulders inwards, and found herself bypassing the staircase for the large doors of the entrance. Merely a quick walk to satisfy her exercising needs, and then she would dive into books about Occlumency, to distract her from the fact that she should have been studying for classes she would likely be unable to perform in next term.

Perhaps, she would find the Room of Requirement and practice the Song—if she promised to limit herself to one hour, she wouldn't be as exhausted as she had been the night before. She'd learned the hard way that too much time spent playing with the Song was as draining as inflecting had been in the beginning.

That morning she had woken with a pounding headache that sometimes happened after she drank too much caffeine before bed. While she had slept, she had not done so as deeply as she should have… It was best not to make the same mistake again.

Pleased with the idea of an hour of practicing before she would read herself to sleep, she hummed under breath, recalling the familiar string of notes on a single whim. As she headed outside, her head was down and her arms were crossed, of course not expecting that anyone would be returning to the castle from the grounds and thus enjoying the first aroma of grass with her eyes closed.

But rather than grass, she smelt _him_ , instead, and her eyes flew open just before they collided.

·

"Bloody… ruinous castle," Severus managed to mutter as he climbed up one of the steps leading to the Entrance Hall, wondering how in the devil he was going to scale the rest of them without passing out. It was always disconcerting to so rapidly return to sobriety after being drunker than he'd been in years. If he'd known that the world would continue to spun violently around him in a vortex of color and smell, he would have told Albus to bugger off and burrowed in at Spinner's for the remainder of the week.

Unfortunately, he'd already swallowed the potion, and out of spite of himself he had returned as his master had willed him to.

 _Gods, this is what hell must feel like,_ he deduced as he tried, in vain, to calm the world from curling around him in vicious spirals.

Although Sober-Up was a beautiful potion, and his version even more so, it was an imperfect blend considering the intricate nature of the brain, which was the organ most affected by alcohol… Even he was unable to brew a likable counterpart to the original concoction that could remedy _all_ symptoms of being drunk. Because of this, he typically suffered through the same recipe that all other mortals did... and sometimes he was forced to face the risks the potion posed. For all it was good for in preventing him from complete foolhardy drunkenness, it was a rare side-effect of continued vertigo that prevented him from his typical poise.

Like all things in his life, his luck was nonexistent. The chance that he would endure the side-effects were high, given how quickly he'd gotten drunk and how soon he'd taken the potion after his last beverage… equally unfortunate, it took an hour for the possible after-effects to wear off. In a haze of stupidity, rather than wait for the potion to run its course, he'd headed off for Hogwarts.

But a few hours after the sisters had left and nearly ten drinks in, Albus had summoned him—likely finally realizing that he was not in the castle when he did not show for dinner—and who was he to deny one of his master of his presence when he was but a lowly servant? It was unlikely that it was anything important, but of course he hadn't realized that until after he'd apparated. If it had been, the message would have been far more violent.

Now that he was here, he figured that Albus simply could not stand to not know why he was not there, and in his curiosity was irritated that he had not informed him he would be leaving in the first place.

 _Meddling fool,_ he cursed.

Once he'd received the message through a twist of the Headmaster's ring and after his godawful landing, he'd considered ignoring it just to irritate the pestering old goat... he was halfway decided to return to Spinner's, before he realized that doing so might split him in half. Knowing it to be idiotic and stubborn, he decided to try and make it to the caslte as quickly as possible, vertigo be damned. This proved more difficult than he had thought, but every step made him all the more determined to keep going.

How he had apparated at all without splinching himself was a miracle. Then again, if it had, he might not be suffering so much.

 _The Divide would have been kinder to you than this._

 _Oh, yes,_ he reasoned foggily, _but if I lingered too long, I'd drown—and that's far too tempting an idea at the moment._

 _Spineless leech… you're weak—just like your father. What if He had called instead of Albus? Had you not considered that before you so eagerly turned to drink?_

 _Didn't I just say death is tempting? At least it wasn't a stronger alternative…_

 _And if you had, what, then, of Potter?_

"Fuck Potter," he muttered, even though he knew there was no truth to it. He would die for the boy, gladly as death had always seemed sweeter than life for someone like him. But unfortunately, for now, he had to live for him… dunderhead that he was. It was a fate he supposed he deserved.

As he tried to straighten, his ears buzzed uncomfortably, as if he was forgetting something he should have remembered.

When the dizziness had mostly passed and with a deep, centering breath, he strode forward. Mildly sobered, he decided that he would make more of an effort towards balance if he was going to be sneaking into the castle through the front entrance. During the school year, he would take more discrete routes, but since there were no students…

 _Granger._

Oh, yes, Granger… she was still here. How could he ever have forgotten?

It had been the farthest thing from his mind when he was plastered. There was so much more to think about than her when his mind was weighed down with all of his past tribulations.

So why was he still thinking about her, now?

 _Because you can smell her... wait, what?_

It didn't take long for him to stumble again. Unfortunately, it was not his doing… or the castle, but that of a rather bushy-haired woman-child. He was tall enough that her riotous hair did not suffocate him, but the tips of it tickled his chin when he curled inward to prevent himself from falling.

 _And you'd just stopped thinking about her. Of course the world would send her your way, just to spite you._

He instinctively took her elbows when she wobbled, obviously surprised to have run into him. Her hands, too, gripped his cloak, and the to-and-fro movement was too much for his shaking legs. If he he were a weaker man, he would have collapsed, but he refused to do so in front of her. She had seen him vulnerable one to many times for that to be an option again.

He expected her to stammer and apologize—she was afraid of him, like all the rest, even though she hid it better than them all. Instead, she stood there, not looking at him, even after he removed his hands from her and she from him.

"Miss Granger."

He was surprised he found the words. He should have just pushed past her, pretended as if they had not encountered one another, and found the headmaster. The sooner he was berated, the sooner he could return to his ablutions.

"Professor," she said, finally looking at him. Her eyes grazed over his face, and he saw them narrow ever so slightly—far more subtly than they normally would have.

 _And what would Hermione Granger need of subtlety? What did she have to hide behind those alluring amber eyes?_

Unfortunately, he did not trust himself beyond them, and so growled at her, "Move."

He had not lost his touch completely—she jerked out of the way instantly. He, however, had underestimated his abilities. Naturally, he stumbled ever so slightly over his own feet, jeering to the left, and almost brushing against her.

"Are you drunk?" She blurted.

"You take liberties you do not have, Granger," he snapped, taking in a deep breath. He wanted to heave.

He was _not_ going to heave in front of her.

She seemed mollified, but her eyes showed something… she was thinking, and hard. Eventually, the words sprung from her lips so quickly, he hardly understood them, "Sober-Up. You aren't drunk—not anymore—you're suffering from vertigo. That's why your skin is tinged green, and your lips so red. There's a 17 percent chance that if you take the potion within an hour of imbibing a drink you will be—"

"Have I mentioned how insufferable you are?"

It was laughable really—her ability to recall information that others would never consider important enough to even spare a second thought. Where did she store all of the useless junk?

 _The same places as you, hypocrite._

"Several times," she admitted softly, leaning back on her heels to stare at him funnily.

He didn't look at her, just closed his eyes. For the first time in a few hours, considering the Sober-Up was killing every endorphin the whisky had given him, he felt the terror of his back. Considering it would counteract with the potions he would normally take with dinner, he had forgone them altogether, having hoped to remain at Spinner's for the next few days.

The pain must have registered in his face, because the girl hesitantly hovered towards him again.

"Are you hurt?"

"What would it matter to you if I was? You can't do anything about it," He muttered bitterly, not opening his eyes, "Not without magic."

The mixture of pain and dizziness was beginning to be too much for him. If he were lucky, she wouldn't have to fetch the nurse to pick up his crumpled, writhing body from the ground…

 _Merlin, not today,_ he prayed. He wouldn't be able to face her again if she saw him like _that._

When she did not answer his question, he opened his eyes. She must have known he intended to storm away, because she grabbed his hand.

"Granger," her name was a warning… a threat. But she was unfazed.

Gods, hadn't he mentioned her condition specifically to drive her way? Why was she so stubbornly invasive?

Perhaps she liked to be talked down to and pushed his buttons on purpose—that would certainly explain her relationship with Potter and Weasley.

"Sir, perhaps you should—"

"Unhand me," he echoed through clenched teeth, his face twisting into a snarl that typically could make first through third years wet their pants. But this was not the same. _This_ was Hermione-fucking-Granger, who managed to find all sorts of ways to annoy him.

Although another student would have shuddered at the thought and happily let him fall, she kept his arm in her hand and beamed at him as if he were some lost cause and she was determined to save him.

 _Just like the bloody house elves._

He forgot to tell her how he felt, as her fingers were rather warm and silky and soft. He could remember them threading through his wet, slickened hair with enough pressure that her nails dug into his skin and was silenced. It was not necessarily a happy memory, but it was… _comforting_.

But it also made him feel bitter. She had no idea who she was man-handling, after all. If only she knew what he had just done… what he had agreed to do.

"What do you think you're doing?" He growled at her when she approached him rather than turn the other direction. She then took his arm as if she were going to lead him away…

Like an elderly invalid.

"You are not in a position to walk on your own… sir," she added, "Please, tell me: when did you take the potion?

"I am aware of the time sensitivity of my… condition, Miss Granger. I have twenty more minutes at the most. Regardless, I have suffered through worse and survived, no thanks to you."

"Of course you have."

"Well," he snarled, "Release me, Granger, before I choose to remove myself with physical force."

She did remove her hands from his arm, but did not step out of his way.

His fingers itched for his wand to spell her away. It would likely lead to a conversation between he and the headmaster, but he would not suffer her concerns easily. Not only did he not deserve them, but his pride bristled at the idea that this slip of a girl thought he was incapable of walking on his own.

Not for the first time, the idea that he would be reduced to that one day made his blood go cold.

"Was I unclear? Remove yourself from my presence, girl."

"I can fetch someone else, instead," she insisted, uncertainty shining in her eyes, "To escort you."

 _Foolish little witch... I don't want you or anyone! I want to be bloody left alone._

He rolled his eyes, "For Merlin's sake, there is no need for such impertinence. Move, I say!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but no. Wait here if you like," she seemed planted, immovable—stubborn as a rock, "But if you're going to walk anymore, then you'll do it with me or allow me to call for assistance. As you said, I don't have magic… I won't be able to scrape you off the ground when you fall on your face or fix anything you might injure in the process," she was surprising him with snappishness he'd never received from her, but which he had often seen her display with the dunderheads, "So if you would like to make it home without a broken nose or some nasty abrasions, then you will hold on to me until we get there."

" _Insufferable_ ," he muttered. He made no move to walk, but instead removed himself from her grip and lowered himself—heavily—to the steps.

She surprised him—she laughed.

It was a surprisingly easy sort of laugh, light and feminine, but not bubbly like, well, the only one that came to mind was Lily. He was not used to people laughing easily in his presence... perhaps Lily Evans had been the last one who had, so many decades ago.

For the first time, he understood the gravity of what Dumbledore had placed before him. Granger was in his care… and she _trusted_ him. She'd told him as such, that very first day. She trusted him not to harm her, even if it was asked of him.

He, of all people, knew how dangerous that would be. Could he hope to keep her from suffering, like the only other to trust him had not?

The conversation he had with the dark lord returned to his mind, reminding him of his previous decision to not only coax her magic, but to train her properly with or without it.

"I might be your teacher, but I am of a temperament to hex you blind," he reminded her darkly.

True to her word, she plopped down beside him, casually crossing one ankle over the other and leaning backwards on her elbows on the steps behind her… proving that she would not leave him alone, as she should have.

"You won't hex me," she replied cheekily, "… yet."

 _No, I wouldn't,_ he knew, although he thought she might have been teasing him with the hastily added remark. Still, he could not, technically, cause harm to any student with magic thanks to the ring on his finger. Perhaps she knew that. Still, he found he did not want to hex her, as much as she was driving his skin to itch with her presence.

 _Yet, not nearly as irritating as she might have been even a month ago._

At that moment, there was a sense of panic in him… perhaps it was because of the strange reaction she had had the day before, but he could feel the dynamic between them morphing. He chose to ignore her and the sensation, hoping that she would take his silence as threatening as some others might have. He would consider it later, when his mind was his own.

After a long moment of silence, he heard her sigh, "Do you need me to fetch the nurse?"

"Spare me such a torture," he bemoaned bitterly, "Am I not already suffering your presence?"

"But—"

"Just… _shut_ _up_ ," his voice was strained—not quite a plea, but nearly, "Shut. Up."

She listened to him, thankfully.

They sat there for a long time, in complete silence. She did not say a single word, and hardly breathed loud enough for him to hear. He found her far more tolerable when she was quiet. It was not uncomfortable, to sit almost alone and yet not... lonely, and to be honest, as he tried to calm his mind with trained breathing, it helped to hear her soft rustling movements beside him.

Amusingly enough, he realized she was doing the same, as her breaths came as evenly as his did by the time his knees creaked back to life.

When he eventually stood, he did of his own accord, although she gathered herself to her feet to help him instinctively, Gryffindor that she was.

Feeling more like himself, if definitely still in pain, he glared at her and snaked his arm away from her reaching fingers, "You forget too easily who is in possession of your wand, Miss Granger. I suggest you listen to my instructions more carefully."

Her eyes widened, as if she had underestimated that he would vie for any leverage against her. Unfortunately, it did not have the same effect as he had hoped, as that stubborn jaw of hers was set forward when she replied, "Of course, sir. I'll be sure to earn it— _properly_."

"I'll be the judge of that, won't I? Perhaps it would be best not to give me a reason to withhold it from you out of sheer… _spite_."

There was no reply. She merely glared at him, fury dancing in her amber eyes.

Smugly, he brushed past her, smirking to himself.

 _I won't be bested by a mere chit of a girl._

At least… not yet.


	16. Pressure

**A/N: I like the dynamic of this chapter... there's a lot of tension. Snape is pulling back from his patient (obviously) after what happened between them last. Hermione is still angry about his comment about her wand at the end and he's only being even more of an arse, considering the castle isn't meddling. Now, however, that our favorite heroine has heard her song and seen her magic, she has some of her old confidence back. It helps, too, that she's been inflecting, getting to see her weaknesses, faults, and learning more about herself. Not to mention, she hates being bossed around. Next chapter: talismans? It's going to be a bumpy ride.**

* * *

Chapter _Sixteen_  
 _Pressure_

* * *

"Enter."

Overcome with a sense of foreboding at what she was to expect from their lesson, Hermione entered the potions classroom numbly. When she arrived before her favored station, she could do little but stare at the bare, battered tabletop and chew at her lip out of sheer nervousness.

"Sit," Snape ordered briskly, dark eyes flickering to her lip with disdain before returning to the parchment in front of him.

As soon as she did so, she was surprised that she did not need to cross her arms to contain what little warmth her body exuded. She'd forgone her favorite sweatshirt, given that she had to rely on the elves to freshen her clothes. The shiver that had haunted her since she left her tower while wearing only a long-sleeved shirt had disappeared when she'd breached the threshold and increased as she delved further within.

Puzzled, she searched for the source of the warmth. A few flames were being prepared for a string of cauldrons, but the Floo was unlit and the small fires should not have been enough. Unconvinced that it was a mere coincidence, her eyes narrowed: Hermione could feel it— _magic_ —thrum over her skin, kissing what little was exposed (her face, neck, and hands) with warmth. Had it been there, always, unnoticed because she was unversed in the detection of it… or was this something else—something new?

Briefly, she closed her eyes, trying to melt into her surroundings as he had taught her to, in order to hear what was not heard and see what was not seen. She tilted her face slightly as she sensed it drifting towards the right, following the warmth with her face as she had followed Snape days before with her body. The smell of it reminded her of—

When her gaze sprang open, she found Professor Snape glaring at her with his arms crossed, perched in front of his podium. The potions master was centered where the warmth was exuding, and it was him who she had unconsciously followed, once again, like the face of the moon encircling the Earth.

For one so dark and pale, could he even be considered warm? She knew from experience that the answer was yes.

"If you are quite finished?" he seethed, no doubt uncomfortable from her staring. Beyond the flat obsidian irises and the terse tone of his voice, no other emotion was revealed.

 _So the mask returns in full form,_ she deduced bitterly.

She nodded in a half-hearted apology, dropping her gaze from his, "Sir—"

"Hold your breath, Granger. We both know you have come for _this_ ," he sneered as he revealed her wand from a locked desk beside him. Hermione felt her throat constrict—her eyes immediately went to the slender length of wood, wrapped elegantly in dried vines, both pale and softly green. He held it delicately between his forefinger and thumb, dangled precariously in front of him as if it were a weightless, delicate feather.

 _My wand,_ a voice within her echoed. It was so loud, she could hear nothing else.

Professor Snape stole it elegantly from view, drawing her eyes back to his, "There are conditions."

Hermione frowned at him. She had not forgotten his promise to withhold it from her.

His back straightened and he peered down his nose at her with eyes flat, blank. Instead of vainly trying to see behind the walls he had built, she surveyed his form. Besides his pale skin, he was swathed all in black. There were no robes, however, only trousers and frock-coat. Without the voluminous cloth, the cut of his rather elegant clothing did his thin frame little justice, making her wonder if there was an ounce of fat on his person.

In that moment as he stalked near the cauldrons to wave his own wand (black, of course) over them— _wordlessly_ , the bastard, which prevented her from learning the spell he used to slow the process of brewing like she had never seen or heard of—she thought he was built rather like a greyhound: seemingly emaciated, yet unexpectedly powerful.

Paired with his rather sly, calculated nature, she supposed vulpine was a better description.

"Conditions?" She echoed, trailing his pacing form with her eyes in suspicion.

It was _her_ bloody wand. Who was he to keep it from her, now that she had proved herself worthy of it?

 _Even if you can hear it, you can't be trusted with your magic… not yet. You know that what happened before could happen again—_

 _Of course it could! It could, theoretically, happen to anyone… but I bloody well can be expected to at least be able to try to fight it—_

 _Be sensible. Getting worked up isn't going to get you where you need to be._

 _I don't want to be sensible… I just want this to bloody be over. I want my magic back. Gods, I've heard it now, haven't I? I haven't even tried to use it and I already feel like it's being taken away from me again…_

 _Are you even ready to try? Are you ready to face what might happen if you cannot use it?_

She could feel the magic, that small ember, aching in her belly… but it was not as strong as it could be—as it should be, and that made her frustrated in ways she could not describe. If she tried to use it, would it ignite… or fizzle?

Hermione clenched her fists on her knees, fighting the pricking tears. Snape's expression offered her no comfort.

Even _if_ he gave her wand fully functioning, she doubted it would be any use to her. Although the Song was soothing, it meant little in the grand scheme of things… only that she could gauge whether or not her magic was with her or dying inside of her, like it had before. And while her magic _was_ there, she'd lost the ability to use it without fearing it would be gone forever.

Could she even stand trying again? Would her first attempt steal it from her forever?

Ignoring her downtrodden expression and fisted hands, Professor Snape towered over her even from feet away, "I have restricted its power."

"You _what?_ "

His dark eyes slid over her face as his features were drawn into a venomous scowl.

Hermione didn't care that she'd spoken out of turn. How _dare_ he? He had not even warned her, let alone consulted with her before performing the charm on her personal property. Granted, he had agreed to help her and she (mostly) believed he had her well-being in mind, but there was a very blatant line that he had crossed by limiting her wand's power without her consent.

If she had a choice, would she have even asked for the wand back at all? If she had known she would be gifted with a child's wand in return, would she have allowed this fallacy to continue?

 _You begged for it, didn't you? Surely, you didn't think it would be returned and everything would fall back into place?_

Depending on what type of restriction, he could have damaged it forever—it might never be the same, even when or if the spell was removed… and the longer it was contained, the more likely it would be damaged permanently.

Just like her.

"By all means, _object_ ," the potions master drawled the word like it was the name of a woman, "Let this fool's errand be over so you can return to your parents for your holiday, so I can be rid of your insufferable pestering."

He might as well have told her to just "be a Muggle already, like you were born to be."

She clamped her mouth shut, but her jaw resisted, practically spasming to tell him how wrong he was. His eyes narrowed to it, betraying him for a fleeting breadth of time. For a second, she thought that maybe, he didn't want her to take the bait… the panic, however, was locked away before her brain could decipher its depth.

If he didn't want her to fight him, then why dangle his power over her in front of her nose? Why speak to her so cruelly?

 _Madam Pomfrey warned you—and like the devil himself said: this is a fool's errand._

 _What is? Finding my magic?_

 _No, hoping that he'll find some sort of kindred spirit in you. You are nothing like him._

But couldn't she be? Beneath the mask, the facade, she knew he was the same: lonely, broken, lost... gods, she had never known she was lost until she'd seen it in him, too.

There was a million things she wanted to say to him as the dark irises trailed from her chin back up to her eyes. Mildly chastised, she could agree that none of it was his fault, that he had done what he had to, that he was merely trying to keep her at arm's length to protect her, but she still wanted to curse him for excluding her from such a weighted decision.

Of course, he was doing what was necessary, to prevent her from falling into the pit of the ruddy disease again, to maintain his cover, but he was also making her feel as if she had no choice in the matter, as if what she thought mattered little in the grand scheme of the world. Then again, he had not promised a different situation, and she had agreed to follow his instructions… to trust his judgement. To accept who and what he was.

She had known he would take every literal precaution to keep her from burning again, and if she had not thought it the best course of action, then she would have asked for someone else—someone who would treat her with respect, but also who would coddle her into next Tuesday. Hadn't she wanted him to push her... someone who would tell her the truth rather than smother her with promises of hope and sunshine.

Int he end, she didn't care a lick about kindness, but for god's sake she was more than just a bumbling school girl as he was painting her to be. Wasn't she the brightest witch of her age? Why didn't he trust her?

 _Yes, the smartest, but not the most powerful._

 _For all he knows, I could be. I haven't even taken my NEWTs—_

 _Haven't you figured it out yet? Who cares about NEWTs? Without magic, you won't qualify to even sign your name properly. You have yet to prove him that you are even serious about your magic, and without it you can do nothing but hide behind Dumbledore and him. Didn't he just find the ember_ for _you? And, two days later, here you are… skipping breakfast, throwing silent tantrums. Grow up, Hermione._

She had no other choice. The only thing she could do was accept his terms, until she could prove to him exactly how capable she was. Maybe, just maybe, if she did, he would respect her opinions enough to let her help him. But even if she could accept the conditions, her emotions were still wavering. Although logical, she was also very prideful, and because of that she would resist him for a little bit longer.

Satisfied with her brewing silence, he spoke again, "For now, when I am not present, you may use it _only_ for the purpose of brewing potions with myself or Madam Pomfrey," the man continued, "If I suspect you are abusing it, it will be confiscated."

She opened her mouth to object, but he held up a strict, pale palm, "This is not a negotiation, Miss Granger. Promptly wipe that righteous expression from your face and for Merlin's sake, sit _still_."

Her jittering legs, nervously bouncing as they had when she was a child and could not contain her energy—her magic, she would later discover—calmed instantly. She frowned at him, but took a deep breath.

A slender black brow quirked.

"There is more we must discuss if you are to be prepared for what is to come," his eyes remained flat and emotionless, "Your presence at Hogwarts has not gone unnoticed by certain wizards."

Hermione's eyes widened, "Does V—"

" _Do not say his name,"_ it was spoken with such venom she blinked. In an instant, he had composed himself, "No, He does not know you are in a vulnerable state, only that you are being protected by the headmaster within the castle. As such, he was fed the same lies that we fed the Order and your parents. Therefore, I have been instructed to assist you in studying mediwizardry to continue the ruse to full fruition. The dark lord has instructed that I am to proceed with these instructions."

 _For Merlin's sake, is everything going to be decided for me?_

 _Convenient for Dumbledore, isn't it, that my ruse has now became a reality?_

 _It could just be a coincidence..._

 _Fat chance._

"Why would he—"

"It matters little why the dark lord does what he does, Miss Granger, as you are powerless to change his mind." She frowned, as she had been about to ask after Dumbledore's decisions. Snape ignored her expression and continued, despite her cry of outrage at once again being cut off and kept in the dark, "To trick your classmates and teachers will require a fair amount of acting on your part, but to dissuade the dark lord's attentions, you will need to learn as much about healing as physically possible."

She frowned—and how would she prove her prowess over the magic without actually having any?

What was Voldemort planning?

Was this the headmaster's doing… Snape's?

Why did she feel like a pawn in some grand scheme?

" _Obviously_ , this is going to be a tedious task. The headmaster has acquired ten talismans for your use—they will be loaded with spells by myself and Madam Pomfrey," he sneered at the thought of her using his magic, "Until you can do so yourself, I will recharge them as necessary… that is, if you are ever capable of using them at all."

He placed a forest green satchel on the desk in front of her. The tiny stones within clinked together before the bag sagged down to rest flat on the table. She did not open it, only stared at the package with a critical gaze, her senses tingling from the heat that was exuding from them.

 _That's what the magic was,_ she realized.

Her eyes remained trained on them, hiding her emotions from the potions master. She knew, in her heart, that he was just trying to protect her… or at least, make his job easier, but she couldn't help but still feel angry.

It was, however, dissipating. She was trying to focus on her breathing and the task ahead of her, rather than the irritation that was eating away at her pride.

"Should you fail to adapt to this method," the man paced in front of her then and paused poignantly. The uncertainty which crossed the planes of his angular visage drew Hermione from her meditations, "We will consider a more… permanent solution."

 _An amulet_ , he meant.

She cringed, knowing what it would cost to find one. She had all but written the option off after reading about how lethally rare they were, let alone how dangerous and difficult to use.

He must have known what she would have said, because his eyes lifted, and he sneered, "Fear not, Granger. I happen to be one of few wizards who possesses one—a token passed down to me by my late mother from my great-grandfather."

Her chin lifted, her eyes widened with shock. His next words were spoken dryly, "Understandably, I will exhaust all options before I subject myself to handing my pittance of an inheritance over to _you_."

Her amber eyes glared down at the warm stones in front of her, fighting the urge to take them and toss them at his fat head—of course she wouldn't expect him to just hand over something like that… a gift from his mother, who was dead. Even if it could be meant to save her life, she would never expect it of him.

She'd never really thought about his mother—if he had one, what she was like… if he had loved her. From the flatness of his face, however, she knew he was hiding something from her. It would not surprise her if he was hiding grief over her death.

For him to even have revealed the existence of the amulet was… puzzling. To speak of his mother was another matter entirely. To reveal a personal detail about his life— _pittance of an inheritance—_ piqued a curiosity that she would tag for later, when she didn't want to swat him over the head with her History of Magic text.

"Is that all?"

He glared at her, "If only, Miss Granger. No, it is not _all_. You will begin now."

"Begin what?"

He sneered as he lifted the vinewood from his pocket, twisting its hilt towards her. He approached her menacingly, his scowl venomous and dark, "You must be as ready as you can be in less than two months' time. Considering we cannot rely on you reviving your magic, you will focus your energy on mastering Occlumency."

 _Gods, he is irritating when he wants to be, isn't he?_

 _You're the one who thought to attempt friendship with him._

Pity, she was the one who was still thinking of attempting friendship with him.

 _Fucking Gryffindors,_ it was his voice which echoed in her mind. She would have smirked if she were in a better mood.

"We begin brewing… _today_. Tomorrow, you will practice with the talismans. The day after, we will begin defensive Occlumency. Your medical training will commence in the mornings. Madam Pomfrey is expecting you at 8 sharp, tomorrow, and you will be expected every day until the beginning of term. So the pattern will repeat unless I am… disposed, wherein the headmaster will fill in my stead to observe you."

 _Fuck_ , who cared about Dumbledore! She was still thinking about the words "defensive Occlumency" paired with "day after". Although she'd been prepping herself, dutifully, she didn't think she was prepared to have him roaming about in her head and every three days at that, probably more… How could she hope to keep him from the treacherous thoughts she had of him?

Hoping to drown out the anxiety that was beginning to make her head pound, she took the wand from him forcefully, hardly allowing her fingers to brush his skin. Naturally, she'd dreamed of this moment for weeks—of finally holding it in her hand again, of hearing it sing its song for her. But, alas, it was less than anticlimactic—she could feel nothing… the vinewood was simply that—a stick—thanks to his restrictions. Until he removed them, it would be of little use to her, if at all.

Not that she could manage much.

"No spellwork is needed," he reminded her as she headed for the nearly finished cauldrons—she would only need to cast the finishing touch, "Merely intent. Think of the wand as a conduit."

Hermione stood in front of the cauldrons, hardly breathing. She hadn't tried to use magic for weeks… would it even feel the same? She pressed a hand to her stomach, where the ember she knew was her magic thrummed so softly she couldn't even feel it anymore.

She must have waited too long, because the potions master hissed in irritation.

"What are you waiting for, witchling?"

She gritted her teeth, "Nothing, _Professor._ "

Sharply, he waved a hand towards the row of cauldrons. She leaned over them with a sour expression of her own, lifting her wand and hoping she could will them back to life, yet knowing deep down that it would not be as easy as that.

·

Every single potion failed miserably. Of course, they did not combust or over-boil, as was typical with young inexperienced brewers. Hermione Granger was not inexperienced, and although young, she was no first year. From what he remembered, even at as a young girl, she had been fully capable of containing even complex recipes such as the Polyjuice Potion.

No, it was not control she needed, but a _spark_.

None came. Each brew which he had prepared, save for the finally touch of magic, slowly died, suffocated by a lack of a magical presence to stimulate them. Even from across the room, he could feel the potions reaching for him, begging for his magic, but he repelled them, hoping that she would overcome her irrational fear of failure and just… achieve.

As the potions died one after another, he saw Miss Granger's face turn darker and redder and the light in her amber eyes go sour. Two hours passed with no luck, and her frown deepened into a scowl rivalling his own. By the end of the night, her hair had seemed to gather a mind of its own, fighting free of the braid she had tamed it into until it was a halo of frizz.

Severus supposed it was his fault that she had failed so miserably, but he had thought her past the need for instruction in containing her emotions. Of course, he had also expected better from her and told her as such before he dismissed her. It came out more harshly than he expected, because he had very forcefully shoved down some words of encouragement moments before. Instead of calming her, he'd purposefully riled her, believing her to be far less fragile than he had suspected days before.

When she had stormed out of the dungeons while damning him with a glare of her amber eyes, he wondered if it had been the right choice. Only when she was gone did he allow himself to slump against the bare chalkboard and curse himself for being so hard on her.

 _It's no different than it always has been._

 _Isn't it?_

Even though he knew it would aggravate her further, Severus had not forgotten how stubborn she was about her eating habits. Now that he'd angered her, she was more likely to go storming through the corridors rather than hunt for food even after exhausting herself, trying to both monitor her magic and being too afraid to expel any of it towards the potions.

"Dobby?"

The elf appeared in an instant, hats and all.

"Please, go to Miss—"

It was rude for elves to interrupt, but Dobby was far from a normal elf, "Dobby will make sure Miss eats a full meal and Miss also drinks two servings of chocolate. Dobby has already prepared Miss's meal and Dobby will make sure Miss eats _every_ _last_ _bite_. Dobby will report to Master Snapes as soon as Miss finishes."

Severus blinked at the buzzing thing, then nodded in praise, "Thank you."

The blasted being _beamed_ at him, "Dobby has prepared a meal for Master Snapes as well. Dobby hopes Master Snapes will eat it," the plate appeared in front of Severus, steaming and aromatic. Although others would argue differently, he could never find it in himself to waste food. Perhaps it was his upbringing of bland, measly scraps and an insatiable hunger that was only quelled when he reached Hogwarts. He would appease the elf, although he wasn't particularly hungry, out of habit rather than out of kindness or gratitude.

Dobby disapparated without a greeting—he'd caught on quickly that the potions master disliked drawn out conversations and unnecessary pleasantries.

 _Strange creature,_ he deemed as he picked up the food and brought it to his rooms. The weight that had settled on his conscience dispersed with the knowledge that the girl was in some way being cared for, considering he was hardly capable of doing so. It allowed him enough peace that he could eat the meal without recourse.

Still, although it made him unsettled, he couldn't also help but be pleased by her frustration, too. As much as it pained him to watch her hope fizzle and fray, it served her right for overstepping their bounds as teacher and student and assuming that she could just _command_ him—as if he could be swayed by her swottiness. And, being dazed and disoriented, he'd practically let her.

It could not happen again. He'd slipped up, and more than once. Not again.

He could rationalize his actions, as he could not have when he was trailing after her before she'd found her magic. Tonight, the castle (which was oddly protective of her) had not stopped him, and it shouldn't have. She would need the determination tomorrow, if she had any hope of dueling him with the three offensive talismans he had gifted her. Considering he had no intention of letting up on her, from now on, the anger would fuel her more than cold determination would have, allowing her an edge she would have lacked otherwise.

She might hate him for it, but he couldn't spoon-feed her magic…

 _Although, technically—_

 _Shut up._

It would be better if she found it on her own, with will and determination… the will and determination that his mother had lacked, which made them two wildly different women. To have thought, in the beginning, that she would end up like his mother was ridiculous and foolhardy. They were made of far different stuff, Hermione Granger and Eileen Prince.

Still, he remembered the moroseness she had worn not so many days before, which was hauntingly familiar.

 _Merlin, was I too harsh with her? What if it's set her back?_

After guiltily wiping his face, he waved the empty plate away and stood up, grimacing at the tightness of his back as he did so.

She would need his help, but in the end the future was in her own hands. There was no need for gentleness, as it would only lead her to false hope. Unfortunately, he would not be alive forever to help her and if she wanted to live—truly live—she would need to heal herself, to be stronger than she was before.

Regardless, Severus wanted very much to distance himself from her and he could only do that by being cold and cruel. It would be difficult to maintain his persona, as the more time he spent alone with her the more he came to realize that she was a likable person, but also because the bonds that formed between Occlumency teacher and student would only pull them closer together. It was an entirely uphill battle from the beginning.

From experience, he knew that the exposure during her training would… complicate things. But it was more dangerous to put it off. Neither could afford it if any of the Death Eater children returning in the next term did so with newfound skills.

 _If only Dumbledore weren't such a fool, he could see that this is putting the entire ordeal at risk._

But, of course, Albus thought she was important. Why, he was not yet certain. He did believe it had something to do with her being a Muggleborn. In the future, of course, her relationship with Potter and Weasley would cement the unification of each of the differing upbringing of magical children, given that all three survived.

It was sickeningly symbolic and entirely something he would expect from the headmaster.

Regardless, he was to teach her to defend her mind, her body, and her magic, if Potter had any hope of surviving. The body and magic were simple: the mind… not so much. It could lead young witches and wizards to do illogical things, given that their emotions were the life-blood of their decisions at that tender age.

To deny that he was scared shitless was foolhardy. Severus only hoped she'd been preparing herself from the beginning and that her training in inflection would allow her at least some defense from his mastery of the mind arts. The sooner she could deflect him, the easier it would be for him.

Unfortunately, nothing was ever easy for Severus Snape.

Wincing, he removed his frock coat, whose charms were in need of refreshing, and stalked towards the cabinet—if he couldn't wear his coat, he could at least numb his aching another way. His long, spidery fingers itched to remove the decanter that waited within, full of brandy. So soon after having quenched his thirst, however, he feared that it was more than necessity that drove him. After the encounter with Miss Granger, he was susceptible to being craving it deeply and more often.

Tentatively, he drew his fingers to clasp at the latch, thinking _just a nightcap_. Only the threat of a summons kept him from lunging within, staying his fingers against the cool, charmed metal.

If he wanted it, he would have to say the words: _Tobias Snape._

In the past, it had saved him from relapse many times, simply because he wanted nothing to do with the man and also because the taste of the name on his lips was as poisonous to his psyche today as it had been when the bastard had claimed it was his name, too.

"Tobias…" he muttered, but his breath hitched along the final syllable, so easily drawn into the name of Snape which he hated.

The latch warmed slightly, but did not unlock. He winced, thinking of the day previous, when he had been spirited into the headmaster's office. The glaring blue eyes had been enough to make him feel more like a fool for his actions than he already did.

 _"We are too close to victory for you to let yourself fall victim to_ certain _weaknesses, Severus."_

 _Albus was far gentler about the matter than Minerva had been, but somehow his judgement cut the potions master far deeper. While he and the Transfiguration mistress were "friends", the relationship he had constructed the headmaster was… complicated, to say the least._

 _If there was someone whom he would say was like a father to him, it was Albus. His opinion mattered greatly to the dark wizard in his employ and confidence. Although that had been shaken due to recent events, when the blue eyes met black he knew that what he feared most was the man's death, even more than his own._

 _"Victory?" Severus had heard himself snort derisively, playing down his actions as any Slytherin would, "Your definition of triumph differs greatly from mine, headmaster."_

 _"Be that as it may, we cannot afford distractions, now that we are so close… reducing the amount of lives lost is our priority, as small a victory as that might be. Without you—"_

 _Severus felt his eyes roll._

 _"Please—Of course, I agree. I have not relapsed, headmaster. You know that I partake from time to time, within reason… this afternoon was no different."_

 _Albus' eyes narrowed._

 _Severus continued, "No doubt, it would behoove you that yes, I did… make a bad choice, but it was hardly as nefarious as you would believe," Severus sniffed through gritted teeth, "I_ was _coping… in as healthy a way as I could manage. Alcohol, only."_

 _"I see… but coping?" The headmaster inquired darkly, "With what, exactly?"_

 _Severus gritted his teeth, "Are there not countless reasons?"_

 _The blue eyes did not twinkle._

 _He cleared his throat, "I was summoned this morning by very discrete means."_

 _"Tom?"_

 _"If only… No, by Narcissa Black—Malfoy, rather, although she reminded me more of her younger self today. She pleaded for her son's life from a half-blood she has hated for two decades—which makes me believe that she might be swayed to our side, given the proper circumstances."_

 _"Perhaps—but never fully, I dare say," the headmaster's face had darkened with deep thoughts, "I assume she asked you to swear to protect Draco's life with a vow?"_

 _"An Unbreakable."_

 _Albus did not appear shocked, but his frown deepened._

 _Severus admitted, "She would expect no less."_

 _"I see."_

 _Feeling the stifling weight of his gaze, Severus glared at the spinning gadget behind his head, " As it seems, I have a persistent purpose in life—to wipe the arses of children who are not my own."_

 _Albus grimaced, but his eyes twinkled slightly, "You did agree to teach, did you not, Severus?"_

 _He sneered, "It was my only option, just how you wanted it."_

 _At that, the headmaster appeared amused. It unsettled him._

 _"And what vow did you make to Narcissa?" His face was wavering somewhere between deep thought and pity. Severus could hardy bare it._

 _"I am to kill you, Albus," He blurted, feeling his nerves burning in his back, but not nearly enough to swallow the anger and grief and fear that was building in his belly. Would he hate him? Would pity be better than hatred, in this one instance? "If the boy fails to kill you, then I am to… be your murderer."_

 _Understanding drifted over the blue gaze. For a moment, the general fell away, and he was his old friend once again. Severus felt his breath and heart stop, and it was too much for him to be able to look at him for a long time._

 _"If it comes to_ that _, my boy," the man said softly, "You would be forgiven, instantly."_

 _He could deny feeling any sort of way about the ordeal—he could be silent, as he was in times like this. But he was tired and his head was hurting as the alcohol had been expunged too quickly from his system… the mask fell, if only for a handful of moments. He felt his face crumple with defeat and he observed his hands very closely. They were scarred both from potions, his childhood, and his precarious position as a spy…_

 _But not nearly so bad as Albus' hand, which slowly killed them even as they spoke._

 _"In your eyes, perhaps," the younger man found himself saying, knowing that his death would be coming anyhow. Nearly an instant later, he hid the pang of relief in his heart—that Albus would not hate him, for doing what he must do—by dropping his chin to hide his face from view behind curtains of unkempt hair, "To others… I will have committed a heinous, unforgivable sin."_

 _"Is an act of honorable villainy a sin, Severus?"_

He had no answer for that question.

For a long time, he stood in front of the glass, eyes closed with the name of his muggle father waiting on his tongue and the echoes of redemption ringing in his ears. His back, unrelieved by the weight of the charmed fabric, burned louder and louder, until it was a debilitating pain… yet he did not reach for the alcohol.

Nor did he reach into his pocket for a pain reliever, or leave his rooms or the castle in search of more… delectable escapes.

If only he were another man, he would have no need for the alcohol, or the drugs, or anything at all. Had he been blessed with a loving woman's touch as a young man, perhaps, he would not crave baser addictions, to be victim to darker desires. With Lily, he had been a different man—a happier one, even if he had not realized it.

Without her, he was more honorable, but… gods, he was so lonely. He hadn't acknowledged it in a long time—the pending death of the headmaster had made him realize that without him, there would be no one who would see him for who he really was.

The reflection of loneliness in Miss Granger's eyes made his feel all the more relentless.

Of course, with memories of fingers in his hair, of cold water being brushed from his forehead with gentle fingers, he had a taste of something that could be much sweeter, of a life without loneliness—but no less would be just as dangerous.

 _More so,_ he knew, and especially for the witchling in question. To slip into temptation now, either in the amber depths of liquor or her eyes, would put them both at risk. He did not want her blood on his hands.

His father's name withered in his mind, suffocated beneath a mental shield. Instead of drinking, he headed for the shower, cold water, and the herby balm he had concocted years ago. If he were to be prepared for the next few days with her, he needed to relax and Occlude.

Of course, Dumbledore was right: they were far too close to victory, as pitiful of one as it would be for someone like him, whose death would be far sweeter than his misery of a life.

·

After Hermione grudgingly ate the food and drank the chocolate Dobby appeared with (being too hungry after all that work to be _totally_ spiteful), she escaped to her dormitory. There were no potions waiting for her, save the Dreamless Sleep, and although she wanted it and was desperately tired, she couldn't bring herself to reach for it. Instead, she glared out at the line of trees from the window for a long moment, trying to calm her mind and heart long enough to formulate a plan.

Severus Snape was a complicated wizard. She'd known that from the beginning, but she hadn't really _known_ it, until the wool had been removed from her eyes and she'd realized that even if she wanted to help him, he wouldn't accept it. If he knew what she planned for him, even in such early stages, he would likely make any and every excuse to send her away. There were many reasons why he was hot and cold, and she was beginning to understand that the line which he balanced upon was thinner than she had thought it was.

Being a pitiful, whining child would not help her conceal her thoughts from him, although she had half a mind to nix the plan altogether in favor of tell him to screw himself and let him suffer. If he didn't want her to help him, why should she put herself through the trouble?

"Because we do what is right, not what is easy," she told the window, echoing the words of her father who had always instilled in her a sense of justice. Turning away from it and heading to the alcove that was her unofficial library, she set her jaw and decided that even if it took the next two days, she would be prepared for his legilimency.

She'd heard her song, hadn't she? It still had so much to teach her, but she knew that it defined her, to her core. If she could hear it, again, then she could accomplish anything: even keeping Snape out of her head.

So, that night, she didn't have the time to practice the song or rest—and although she very much wanted to escape the entire ordeal completely… to forget who, what, and why she was Hermione Granger, she no longer would ever have that luxury, considering how intimately she was becoming with what little magic she had left. If she wanted to preserve it, if she wanted to survive the war with it intact, there was work to be done and the anger that Snape had instilled had lit the proverbial fire under her arse to find it and keep it for good.

Inflection helped one understand their mind, and because their lessons had continued much further than normal in search of her magic, she was more aware of who she was than ever. Her fears, her hopes, her dreams… they were evident in front of her: clearer than her own reflection in a mirror. And Hermione now knew who she wanted to be, who she was always meant to be—and she would be that person, but only when she had her magic back. And when she did, gods help the bastards who stood in her way, or who threatened the people she loved. They would rue the day they called her Mudblood... the day they hurt Harry, Ron, Ginny, Luna, Neville... Snape.

To reach her potential, she would need Snape's help. Damn him, but she needed him, and she would not forgive herself if she failed to make the world appreciate him for what he was. So instead of wallowing, she poured over every single Occlumency book she had, formulating a plan to keep Professor Snape, at the very least, on his toes, mentally and physically.


	17. Specters

**A/N: As promised: talismans... and a little bit more than you might have expected, actually. I think this was way better. Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter Seventeen  
 _Specters_

* * *

"Miss Granger!"

The nurse nudged her wand against her slumping shoulder. Hermione jerked, guiltily realizing that she had not been paying attention, but instead had been gazing out the window. As she was still more concerned with Occlumency than anything else, the witch had been trying to visualize the walls of her mind as the books had suggested she do regularly.

"I'm sorry," the young witch admitted automatically, albeit a bit grumpily. She wiped her face with both palms, effectively lodging her wand—still clutched in her hand—in a tangle of hair, " _Ouch_."

She'd only been without it for a few weeks and she was toting it around like a first year, nearly poking herself in her own eye.

"If you are having trouble sleeping, Miss Granger, then I suggest you take the Dreamless more often. Otherwise, your inattention is inexcusable."

"Pardon me?" Hermione heard herself blurt, although she immediately winced at the darkening expression of the nurse.

Madam Pomfrey, of course, had been slightly cold to her the entire morning, but her words now were nearly as biting as Professor Snape's. Hermione blinked, confused, before the pieces began to stitch themselves together.

The nurse was only ever angry when she was worried—and she was worried about Hermione. She hadn't noticed it, at first, as her senses were dulled after only having slept a handful of hours the night previous.

She should have expected this: Pomfrey had been adamant about warning her about the dangers of healing during wartime.

"You heard me clearly, young lady," Poppy said darkly, "Your ears, last I remembered, have suffered no injury."

 _Gods, no wonder she and Snape don't get along. She can be as snarky as he can!_

Hermione gritted her teeth, trying to reign in the anger that often escaped her when she was tired.

That morning, at eight sharp, after had dragged herself into the threshold, carting all the books she had on healing. Instead of researching, the nurse had set her to work immediately on learning incantations. Of course, Hermione couldn't perform them, and she had memorized almost all of them already.

The nurse knew this, but had insisted and had badgered her to repeat them back nearly a hundred times before they had moved on.

After, she had sourly begun to demonstrate spells for her at a speed even Hermione Granger could not keep up with, going from snail pace to mach-speed. The young witch stumbled behind her, but the fact that she could sense the tension between them—and she had an idea why it was, but was too tired to acknowledge it until now—had made her distance herself from the learning.

The Gyrffindor _had_ tried to focus on the more pressing task and ignored the mistreatment. Now, however, it was going to be unavoidable, thanks to her blurted words. The tension could not be ignored.

With a gentle smile, she insisted, "Madam Pomfrey, I am sorry—I know these spells are important to learn, but I'm having trouble keeping up. Considering that I can't perform them yet, could we do something else? Discuss theories, perhaps?"

"I was under the impression that this was your choice, Miss Granger. If you can't keep up with the practical spell work, then perhaps this is not the occupation for you," the nurse admitted with a purse of her lips and a narrowing of her eyes. No doubt, she thought Hermione was in cahoots with the headmaster, and that she had agreed to the training to serve the Order out of sheer Gryffindor honor.

Although Hermione did plan on offering her assistance in some capacity, she was not watching the witch demonstrate her knowledge of basic healing charms and practicing the movements—without incantations—because she wanted to. No, she was doing it because she was trying to cover her own arse!

"I think you misunderstand. Of course, I want to be here, to learn from you," Hermione said gently. Could she trust the woman? "But…"

Finally, the wall of ice fell, and the nurse ushered forward, worry in her gray-green gaze, "What did that meddling man say to you?"

"Nothing… I haven't even spoken to him in a few days. It was Professor Snape—"

"Oh, not him, too!"

"Please, let me finish… it's not what you think," There was no easier way of saying it, "You-Know-Who knows I am here, Madam Pomfrey, and Professor Snape fed him the same lie I fed my parents—I'm staying at Hogwarts for protection, in exchange that I learn mediwizardry from you to aid the war effort and protect Harry."

"Oh— _Oh_!" the nurse said with a worried gasp, "Miss Granger—Hermione, that's…"

"Unfortunate? I suppose, but it depends on how you look at it. I'm trying to make the best of it."

"But… You-Know-Who... The headmaster—"

"For whatever reason, both want me to learn healing—lucky for me, right?"

"It's…"

"Better than the alternative," Hermione agreed.

If You-Know-Who wanted her dead, would Snape have hurt her? Killed her? Taken her to him?

She shivered at the thought. Madam Pomfrey seemed to share the sentiment and frowned.

The nurse took her hand and squeezed, "Well—we will have to prove them all the more, the fools. With or without magic, you will learn healing from me as best as I can teach it. Whether or not you continue with it will be your choice, and bugger their opinions once this entire mess is over with."

"I'm not so sure it works like that," Hermione said, "But that sounds like a good idea."

"Of course it is, dear! Let's take a small break," the nurse brushed her sleeves like she did after losing her composure, "Then—we will start afresh, considering our purpose is clearer for the both of us. Did you bring some reading we can discuss?"

Hermione smirked and lifted the immensely heavy bag she'd brought with her, "I am not known for my bookishness for nothing."

"Certainly not, dear."

·

That afternoon, Severus approached the Room of Requirement tentatively. He had not set foot in this room for… many years—not since Harry Potter's first encounter with the dark lord at Hogwarts, if he could recall correctly, and for good reason.

It was far too tempting, he knew, to seek out the Room of Lost Things, knowing what it was that was hidden within: the Mirror of Erised and with it the face of Lily Evans. Of course he'd found it (Albus had hinted of its wonder several times). He had seen her as a young girl and himself as a younger man, happy and innocent and free of the burdens that befell them in adulthood. It had been a much more forgiving a picture than the one he had come to find for himself today.

He'd visited it until it disappeared, and even though he knew where it had gone, he did not go to it. Even after it was moved from the third floor corridor to the Room of Lost Things, he did not seek it out, knowing that the dark lord would need his attention more than the image of his dead friend.

Gods, it was still tempting to find it. He'd forced himself to stop on the third round—having been intent for the Mirror and his lost beloved, rather than the sparring room he needed to train Miss Granger. The second time, the room had stubbornly refused him entry, as his intents had been so conflicted. Only after he'd driven all thoughts of Lily from his mind had he doubled back, paced three more time, and been granted entrance to the Dueling Room.

When it appeared, he castle seemed apprehensive to allow him entry and the door (a sleek sheet of oak emblazoned with a sword crossed over a wand) remained shut. The last time he'd felt that kind of tension, Albus had returned in a state of near death. His skin crawled thinking about what else could happen, but to dwell on it would lead to nothing productive.

He nudged the Sigil of Slytherin with the pad of his thumb, ensuring the castle that his means were necessary—the ring responded with a warm tingle and the Room of Requirement beckoned him within with a creaking of an opening door.

The potions master entered without further qualm. With a sweep of his gaze, he noted that the dueling room was, as always, adequate of his needs. Devoid of unnecessary fringe and frill, it was exactly as he remembered it being: windowless, with a floor cushioned by spells, and various blocks of marble with which to find cover from spells. When he needed it, the room would morph into whatever field necessary: a forest, the Great Hall, the Astronomy Tower.

The most important part of the room was not the surroundings, however, but the… partners it could offer him.

When he had been a young man, he had sought solace here, in this particular room. Of course, he had also done so when he still considered himself a boy and had wrote and played his Song, but _after_ … after Lily's death, the song sounded false… unfinished. He hadn't the heart to rewrite it, as he knew it should have been. What need did he have to hear it, changed as he was no longer the same person when he'd initially performed it for his mother?

No, the song was not what he needed, but a much more aggressive outlet. When he had admitted to his struggles of addiction to the witch, Minerva had suggested he let out his pent-up anger with dueling. To be honest, he'd been shite at it, even with all his experience with the Marauders. Hence, why they had typically won and he had not.

Of course, his talents had lied elsewhere: intelligence, potions-work… lying. What use, however, were the dark arts if he could not use them to defend himself? So he'd held up against Minerva as well as he could. After his experiences as a Death Eater, it would serve him better to learn how to defend himself and others and he was devoted—it kept his mind off of other things.

When he no longer had need of it regularly, he had visited only a few times a term, always without her. With no corporeal partner, it was more difficult for him to train—the dummies he conjured were just that… dummies and they could never hold up to his spells.

But the Room adapted to his needs, and he soon discovered that facing his demons was taken quite literally by the castle.

As if they could sense his growing anger, the central specters of his past appeared: his father erupted from the wall across from him. To his right, Bellatrix Lestrange appeared, and across from her was Lucius. To his left, Black and Potter stalked, looking smug and laughing.

Each group sauntered towards the center of the room, appraising each other with venomous gleams in their eyes before turning collectively for him.

"It's been so long, _Snivellus_ ," Sirius echoed towards him, "Miss me yet?"

Severus grimaced at his form. It was the Black of recent times—the man who had spent thirteen years in Azkaban and emerged worse for wear, yet was still the same arrogant, reckless youth of memory on the inside. Standing beside a young James Potter, he was gaunter than ever, with yellowed-teeth, scraggly hair, and a wiry beard.

He ignored the burning hazel eyes of his oldest foe, which seared towards him as they always had: accusing him, forever, of being exactly as he had thought him to be. In the end, Severus had fulfilled James Potter's every warning to his wife: that he would lead her to harm and ruin.

"Sevvy-Wevvy!"

Bellatrix shot off a hex while greeting him. It was not harmful—the castle's magic couldn't manage that. No, instead it merely struck him and diminished with a puff of purple smoke.

Severus sneered at their approaching forms. He should have willed them all gone—but, somehow, seeing his father after all this time stirred in him feelings of self-loathing which prevented him from turning around and leaving the room.

Tobias Snape wore the same pale face he always had. His sharp, unhandsome features were familiar, as Severus was damned with some them—dark brows, thin lips, and a hooked, crooked nose, especially. His mother had sported a similar nose—although arguably more regal than her husband's. It was likely impossible for him to have been born handsome given their combination of features, but as much as it was Eileen Snape who made him so, he blamed the filthy Muggle in front of him for every greasy strand of hair on his head and crooked teeth in his mouth.

The anger that burned in the elder Snape's eyes was magnified when he gazed upon his son. Of course, he was a projection of his memories and because of that he existed solely in the state that Severus most remembered him: hateful.

He spoke in a thick accent, "You shall not allow a sorceress to live."

Severus gritted his teeth, "You are as hypocritical as I remember you to be."

The Muggle frowned at him, disapprovingly, "Now a man or a woman who is a medium or a spiritist shall surely be put to death. They shall be stoned with stones, their bloodguiltiness is upon them."

"Come now, Severus," Lucius, ever the cool and diplomatic pureblood gestured with distaste towards the Muggle, "Shall we murder this pity of a man together, or will I have to do it for you?"

"Fuck you, Lucius," Severus muttered at the man. It was his fault he was in this position—if he'd never whispered of a better life, Severus might never have wanted more for himself… and by de facto, less for Lily.

As much as he owed him for many things, he also hated Lucius as much as he hated his father for his influences of his character. Especially after his burning, he had carried a special sort of hate for him.

"You would like that, wouldn't you, Snivellus?" Black whistled, "I always suspected, what with you sniffing his arse all first year. Then _after_ Lily left you for us, you followed him to your master's side. Anything for love, right, Snivy?"

Oh, yes, he hated Lucius, but not more than he hated Black, however. No, Severus reserved a special sort of hatred for Sirius…even more so than he did for James Potter.

"You would know a lot about sniffing arses, wouldn't you, Black? After all, your snout was shoved so far up your godson's that you got yourself killed."

Black stewed for a moment, before he whipped out a wand, sending a hex towards him. Severus expertly avoided it, unwilling to participate in the fallacy of a duel just yet.

Lucius stepped in his place. Beside Sirius, James—who never spoke, not since Severus first imagined him—jumped to the defensive, blocking a spell from Bellatrix nonverbally. The witch had joined in with her brother-in-law with a cackle, paying little attention to Severus.

Tobias glared at the lot of them, "Now, therefore, please come, curse this people for me since they are too mighty for me; perhaps I may be able to defeat them and drive them out of the land. For I know that he whom you bless is blessed, and he whom you curse is cursed."

Severus strode towards the man, intent to curse him. When dark eyes glared towards him, however, he couldn't bring himself to do it—even after all these years, a part of him felt… afraid when his father spat verses at him, afraid when he saw him and he knew that what he saw was the man he had always known his son would become: a man not so different from him.

His wand hand trembled, but he did not say the words.

"And the light of a lamp will not shine in you any longer… for your merchants were the great men of the earth, because all the nations were deceived by your sorcery."

"Shut the fuck up, Da," Severus spat at him, "For god's sake, shut the _fuck_ up!"

The switch flipped—his father's face melted into one of pure and utter rage and he spat when he spoke.

"YOU DARE SPEAK TO YOUR FLESH AND BLOOD FATHER WITH SUCH HEINOUS INTENT—"

"Oh, now you claim we are blood?"

"—I HAVE WASTED MY BEST YEARS PROVIDING FOR YOU AND YOUR WORTHLESS WHORE OF A MOTHER—"

Severus gripped his wand at hearing his mother be called as such. She'd loved Tobias, had married him—never knew anything but his twisted touch and tongue. To hear her be called a whore when she had literally _died_ for her love of the stupid Muggle made his blood boil.

"—I SPENT EVERY LAST PENNY I HAD TO MAKE SURE WE HAD A ROOF OVER OUR HEADS—DID AS BEST BY YOU AS I COULD—TRIED TO INSTILL IN YOU A HEALTHY FEAR OF GOD FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR SULLIED SOUL—"

He lifted his wand. His father's eyes lowered to it, wary.

"You'd like to use that on me, wouldn't you? Go ahead—do it. Prove to the lord how much of a sinner you are—disobey your father, and he shall strike you down, Tobias!"

"Severus!" He spat, "My name is _Severus!"_

"You're just like her, _Severus—_ too wicked to be saved. You fucking _witches_ and your goddamned wands. YOU AND YOUR DEVIL-WORSHIP! YOU ARE NOT _MY_ SON—YOU ARE A DEVIL—AN ABOMINATION! A _FREAK_!"

"Gods, this Muggle is boring," Lucius broke away from his duel with Black, " _Crucio!"_

His father crumpled in agony. Severus, briefly, relished in the look of agony that wrought across his face. Unfortunately, Lucius was struck with a curse from Potter, freeing his father after a mere moment of pain.

As soon as he could gather himself, Tobias Snape strode towards his attackers, ripping his belt from his pants, driven by the false pride that was blessed to men who drank until their courage blended with their stupidity.

 _Four purebloods, a half-blood, and a Muggle_ _walk into the Room of Requirement_ , Severus thought wryly (and not for the first time in his life), rolling back his sleeves and cracking his neck.

Each of them was Severus' enemy, yet also enemies of each other, as well. It was his advantage, always: while they fought amongst each other, his importance was lost on them and he could do what it was that he needed to do without distraction.

He incapacitated his father, first. It was rather easily done, considering he fought with his hands and had, by definition, no magic. Although he would have once taken the time to defeat him with hand-by-hand, Severus was not up to the task that night. He would see his father suffer with magic, instead—swiftly and sweetly.

With a single flick of his wand, the Muggle was tossed easily into the wall across from him forcefully. When his skull cracked against the marble, Severus was already locked in a duel with Potter and Black, both Bellatrix and Lucius at his side.

Potter fought admirably, without distraction. He was mostly interacting with Bellatrix, however, while Lucius and Severus dealt with Sirius.

"I told Dumbledore where your true loyalties would lie," Sirius shrieked when Severus took up his wand beside the Death Eaters, "I told him you would betray the Order!"

"It seems you were the only one dead from that battle, Black," Lucius said when he disarmed the fool, "The Order will stumble on without your assistance."

"After all," Severus added spitefully, "You could do little to help them in the end, could you, _Snuffles?_ It's your fault I am dead."

Gray eyes jerked to face him, and his mouth was open to accuse him of treachery.

Unfortunately, Bellatrix jutted in with the killing curse, sending the specter sprawling backwards. While he was swallowed by the ground, Potter was allowed to hit Bella with a forceful jinx that had her folding over.

"You'll pay for that, Potter," the man beside Severus vowed coolly, "More than you already have, at least."

James met Severus' gaze, however. They shared a look of agreement, and as soon as Lucius' _Incarcerous_ spell struck him, Severus lifted it. The Malfoy patriarch was so surprised, he was not prepared to defend himself when they both turned on him, stunning him into oblivion. As the silvery specter fell, black Bellatrix stood up from her pool of agony, swiping at the frayed skin of her face madly where James' dark magic had removed it.

As much as Lily had loved him, he had been as imperfect as Severus—although his handsomeness and boldness had spared him her scrutiny, he'd been just as knowledgeable as the dark arts as he had. He'd been better at hiding it from her than Severus had, because of his reputation as a Gyrffindor.

Strange, wasn't it, then, how much they had fought their baser natures—Severus the Slytherin and James the Gryffindor—for the love of one girl.

Uncharacteristically, Severus had been brutally honest with Lily from the beginning, out of a foolish need for her to love him truly, unconditionally. James, however, had slithered into her heart with flattery and false promise, willing to spare any lie to sway her to his favor.

In the end, they weren't very different from each other.

Bellatrix, furious with the turn of coats, dropped her hands and struck with her wand, "I knew you were a traitor from the beginning, Snape! I saw the way you looked at the Mudblood—I told the dark lord to kill her, that doing so would reveal your true loyalties—"

Severus nodded—of course she had, "And yet, he believes in me still, does he not?"

Bellatrix snarled, "He might, yes—but I see you, Severus. I see you for what you really are: a sniveling coward of a wizard. A Mudblood-lover."

"I admit to the latter, but believe me, Bella: I am no coward."

As she expelled a Cruciatus towards him, Potter lashed out with a slew of curses, striking at the witch with everything that he could have in life. Severus had been at the brunt of his magic many times: he was not a weak wizard, and he often wondered that if he had been armed that night, if Voldemort would have been able to kill him.

When he was finished, he turned upon Severus, his wand lifted towards him menacingly. Severus, however, had already struck him with a curse.

"You always were a fucking reckless bastard, Potter," Severus shot towards him when he stepped over Bellatrix's sputtering body, "You were supposed to protect her and you let her die—because you let your guard down, even knowing... for fuck's sake, James, how could you think you were safe from _Him_?"

The messy-haired, bespectacled wizard lifted his own wand, deflecting the curses that flew, one after the other, towards him.

"I told you to fucking run and you didn't fucking listen to me—of all the times to have listened, that would have been it. But you were a prideful fucking fool, too stupid to find a semblance of reason. You listened to Dumbledore, even though I… swallowed _my_ pride and told you— _you,_ of all people— to run. That enough should have been evidence of how much trouble you were in, that the one who hated you most would come begging for you to run!"

Potter's face was blank when he dropped his wand and opened his arms, daring Severus to strike him down for his crimes. He'd done what he could have and if that wasn't enough, so mote it be.

 _Arrogant pig!_

Instead of killing him like he wanted, Severus dropped his wand. He spoke the words that James would never be able to say: "We are both fools. We failed her, the two of us: from the beginning. But we couldn't allow it to be anyone else, no we had to have her for ourselves. Sadly enough, Potter, I would have rather it had been me, than you—and you knew it, didn't you? Of course you did, you're a fucking prick… but she would have been happier for it, we both knew _that_."

With a laborious sigh, he lowered his wand, unwilling to strike him down, even if he was just a fragment of a memory, "You won, you areshole… but you couldn't even spare me the happiness of knowing she was alive—as much hell as it was to imagine her with you, at least she was breathing. At least she was happy."

James opened his mouth, perhaps to say something, despite never have before.

But it was then that he realized that the ring on his finger was blazing hot and he grimaced, clasping it in his other hand to quell the pain. He turned on his heel towards the entrance, just in time to see Miss Granger pushing open the door, her bushy hair appearing before she did.

 _Had she… ?_

 _No,_ he determined when she lifted her gaze and saw the specter that stood in front of him.

Her amber gaze widened, "Harry?"

He waved an arm and the man disappeared, along with the words he might have spared him.

"Miss Granger," he greeted coldly.

She accused him with her eyes trailing over his body with an expression of shock. Not only was he was sheened in sweat, but he was dressed casually, at least compared to his typical attire: a dark gray vest—equipped with similar but not as potent charms as his frock coat—worn over a crisp white shirt and black trousers. His hair was pulled away from his head into a bun, which she noted with a lifting of her eyebrows into her hairline.

Severus' first instinct was to be embarrassed by her surprise, but he swallowed it out of pride. She would likely get used to seeing him like that and hide her distaste from him again.

After all, she would see him casually again, as he was going to train her to protect herself and that required him his own sense of leisure, did it not?

As much as he believed that Lord Voldemort had no interest in her, he was not a fool to not notice when the bastard was planning something for her. If he was to be held to the promise that she would "suffer", she would need to be able to defeat anyone—including Severus himself, though he prayed to God it would not come to that.

Her eyes dropped towards the place where James Potter had stood, "What was—"

Rather than explain—there was no way in hell that he would ever explain his conflicted relationship with the memory of James Potter—he flicked his wand and the talismans that she had been clutching flew from their captivity in the velvet bag. Each stone jutted far from her reach out of the satchel, summoned towards his hand with the speed of bullets.

"How disappointing, Miss Granger, that you have failed our lesson before we have even begun."

To taunt her, he sent three of the talismans back towards her. She opened her mouth, then glared and set her jaw in that stubborn way. Before she could evaluate the situation further, she jutted forward, towards the talismans, grabbing the closest one. The others swirled around her in a dizzying way before escaping once more.

He re-summoned them with a tsk of his teeth.

"What luck," he admired dryly, "I'm sure that a _Lumos_ talisman will be essential to ensuring you survive an encounter with a dark wizard. Strike _two_ , Granger."

With a sigh, she dropped her hand, then glared at the wall away from him.

"Now," he gathered the talismans with another flick of his wrist into his outstretched palm. The ones that didn't fit in his hand rotated in front of him, "First rule: don't let anyone see you with these talismans."

"How can I manage that, sir?"

He rolled his eyes and approached her. He tapped the bag she still held with his wand—it disappeared from sight, "Your wand is capable of the same. Merely tap it and it will disappear or reappear—which brings us to our second rule: do not misplace your talismans."

She nodded. He offered the talismans back to her with a wave of his wand. She opened the bag and allowed them to return to their rightful place. The last one, however, he left spinning in front of her. After gazing at him with a hateful glare, she plucked it from the air.

 _Good girl,_ he denoted. _Hate me all you like, but you will survive this bloody fucking war._

He could not guarantee Malfoy's innocence, or Albus' life, or Potter's safety—but he could ensure this chit survived, or so help his sanity and his soul.

Thinking of the other witches in his life that he had failed, he cleared his throat and began, "Third rule: play smarter not harder, Granger. We will begin with the _Expelliarmus_ Talisman… "

·

By the end of the better part of three hours, Hermione managed to dispel Snape's wand from his hand. He—with the grace and speed of a bird of prey—snatched it neatly back almost immediately, but the mere fact that she'd managed to coax the talisman to do her bidding was enough.

Exhausted from the effort, she dropped her wand to her side—having pretended the wand movement for the sake of practicing (she couldn't cast magic without a wand to the innocent observer)—and admitted to herself that Snape's restriction of it was quite necessary. Without it, she might have accidentally used her own magic… which in her case was dangerous.

Of course, she was rewarded with a stinging hex for letting her guard drop. Snape had been sending them her way all night—silently and sometimes wandlessly, just for the sake of making her feel all the more inadequate, she supposed.

Of course, she had sidestepped to avoid the last one, but the energy seemed to have drained instantly from her and it nipped her hip. With a spinning head, she found herself crumpling for the floor after it hit her, suddenly overwhelmed by nausea and a damning thirst when it crinkled over her skin.

"Oh," she heard herself say a moment later, after the world righted itself—or rather, after her eyes opened and she realized she was lying flat on the ground.

The young Gryffindor blinked at a pair of dark eyes peering into hers and realized that she had passed out. Snape must have cushioned her fall, because the ground beneath her felt extra-soft—more like pillows than stone. When he realized she was awake, he leaned away to allow her the privacy to gather her wits.

As she managed to sit up, she sighed in discomfort. Hovering in front of her was her magic, or at least the magic Snape's spell represented—the ember burned just a bit brighter than she remembered from the last time.

" _Oh_!"

He had checked her magic because she had passed out—worried that she might have… suffered an episode. Of course he had. She would have done the same.

"No sudden movements, Miss Granger," the professor commanded, even as she sat up further on her arms and gazed at the pictogram of magic in front of her. He sat beside it, kneeling on one knee and gazing down at the fire with a speculating eye.

"It's…" she sought the word.

"Brighter… although one might be able to argue otherwise, it appears you are improving, Your other health vitals are stable, as well."

She turned to look at him in surprise—from him, it was a compliment.

"How long was I out, Professor?" Her eyes had returned to the orb, and she gazed at it for a long time, breathing softly and tracing the sound of her magic in her head with the slight pulse of the fire.

"A handful of minutes," he said sharply. The image disappeared with a wave of his hand, "This wouldn't happen if you would provide your body with proper nourishment. Did you prepare at all for this, girl?"

With a grimace, she began to stand. He looked down at her sharply, but offered her his arm. She took it and used it to hoist herself up, but immediately regretted doing so as she swayed and ended up leaning heavily against him.

"I hope this is a temporary side-effect," she admitted, mostly to herself.

"We shall see."

It felt strange to be so close to him—he smelt different, but only because they had been running around the room for so long. He'd been there before she had and by the time she had arrived he had already been sheened in sweat, so of course he smelt muskier than normal.

Although she hadn't seen much, she had heard a bit of one-sided conversation. Knowing it might be the death of her, she pushed those thoughts away to analyze later— _after_ she could push him from her mind.

Deftly, he transported her to a chair which he had likely conjured or the room had provided. As soon as she sat down, he transfigured a cup and cast an _augamenti_ into it.

"Drink," he instructed.

She obliged, happily, wincing when she felt the water dribble down her chin. He didn't seem to notice nor care. After hesitating, she continued to indulge, being careful to keep the liquid in her mouth rather than dumping it over herself.

"Dobby," she heard him call out as she finished the last gulp.

"Master Snapes! Oh, my—Miss Granger is alright?"

"It's Hermione," she insisted absently, "And I am perfectly fine, Dobby. Thank you."

She could practically hear Snape roll his eyes.

"Dobby—fetch a meal for—"

"Dobby will return momentarily with two meals for Master Snapes and Miss Hermione!"

"Only one—"

The elf was already gone, however. Hermione smiled into her cup. Sometimes, when Snape scowled, he could look rather comical…

"What are you smirking at, witchling?"

"I am _not_ a witchling," she muttered back at him, "I am of age—"

"By illegal means, of course," he said with a sneer, "Time travel, Miss Granger?"

"It was Ministry approved."

"Ah, yes—I'm sure the Ministry of Magic approved of you assisting in the escape of a convicted felon. That's exactly what Fudge had in mind when he had his secretary signed the turner off to Minerva."

Remembering how angry he had been about Sirius' escape, she kept her mouth shut, although she was tempted to taunt him with Fudge's offer of an Order of Merlin for his assistance with capturing said felon. Something passed over his eyes, however, and she wondered if he was thinking about the fact that Sirius was now dead, just like she was.

Silence fell between them. By the time Dobby arrived a handful of seconds later, both wizard and witch were glaring at the floor and away from each other. The elf placed the food on a table which appeared with him, courtesy of the Room of Requirement, ignorant of the strange air that had settled between the magical couple in front of him.

"Thank you, Dobby," the potions master said stiffly.

"Anything for Master Snapes," the elf admitted, "Anything for Miss Hermione. Dobby wishes both wizard and witch a healthy evening!"

He disappeared with a pop, leaving the two to stare at the steaming meal in front of them. Hermione admitted, guiltily, that although it smelt delicious her stomach churned anxiously at the thought of eating so much. The plate was piled high with roast beef and mashed potatoes, accompanied by an overly healthy portion of broccoli and carrots. Loaves of bread accompanied both plates, complete with a boat of gravy.

She peered down at the food with a curdling expression.

"It will be difficult, at first," she heard the potions master say softly, "But once you start, it will be easier to continue."

Her eyes lifted to meet his. For a minute, they just looked at each other, both trying to decipher the thoughts of another, yet neither truly wanting to look further than the expressions they wore. Hermione, for one, was looking rather uncertain. Snape, on the other hand, was calmly unsettled—then again, he always seemed to exist in a state of discomfort and ease at the same time.

A man of contradictions, she decided.

After she had yet to pick up her fork, he spoke again, "Would a potion expedite the process for you?"

With a rising of her eyebrows, she realized he was teasing. His smirk deepened and she ducked her head to hide her own smile.

With a soft laugh, she scooped a forkful of food into her mouth. It was strange enough to be eating in front of Snape, but to be eating _with_ him and just him, for that matter, was an opportunity she might never have had given their strange resistance of each other. And it wasn't such a terrible affair… he ate quietly, politely—a much handsomer eater than Ron or even Harry. He didn't speak over mouthfuls, nor did he speak much at all. In fact, they did not say a single word to each other until she set her fork down and he his.

She did find that he was right: once she started chewing, however unpleasant, it was easier to continue. She had finished most of the vegetables and potatoes, and managed to suffer through some of the roast beef before she gave up entirely.

Her belly felt like it would burst, and all over herself, too.

"You didn't finish," the professor admitted, his dark eyes glancing toward her plate.

"Sue me for saying so, sir," she said with a quirk of her lips, wondering if he would take pity on her after her episode of frailty, "But I'm surprised _you_ did."

To her surprise, he did not sneer, although he did scowl slightly—in a good-natured sort of way, if that were possible, "I am human, contrary to popular belief, Miss Granger. I must eat just as any other mortal man and sometimes I am hungry enough to overly indulge."

Something in her softened at the mention of the rumors that surrounded him: suggesting he was a shade or a vampire. She quirked her lips at him, feeling devilish, "Could have fooled me, sir—but I think that's part of your long game, isn't it?"

"Quite," he admitted with a quirk of his brow. He Vanished the food that was in front of her, before tapping the plates to send them back to the kitchens—it was something she had seen only a couple wizards do.

She knew it was because he didn't want to offend the elves by not eating the meal in front of him. Although it was respectable, she wished she hadn't realized as such, because she immediately liked him all the more for it.

The intimacy of the meal must have gotten to her head—or maybe she was just barmy with no sleep and all the work she'd been forced to do, but she let her mind get away from her and asked the question that had been pestering her for weeks, maybe years, "Why do you do it, sir?"

"Do what, Granger?"

"Fight… fight against Him?"

He stared across the room—for a moment, she followed his eyes. She thought he might have been looking at the spot where she had seen him standing with Harry… or the man who looked like Harry, talking about protecting someone they had both loved.

At least, that's how it had sounded, to her—could he have ever loved someone, being who he was?

The slight sadness in his eyes led her to believe that the answer was yes. She knew that look—it was the very same one she saw Harry wear when he thought about his parents, or Cedric, and now Sirius. If he had not loved them, he at least felt guilt over their death, remorse for their lost life… sadness that they no longer were in this world, but the next.

"Miss Granger, you would not believe me if I even cared to tell you."

It was as good an answer she was going to get, and far better than she had expected.


	18. Legilimens

**A/N: The big day has come: defense of the mind. Will our hero and heroine have been fretting for night? Perhaps, perhaps... not.**

Chapter Eighteen  
 _Legilimens_

"UGH!"

Hermione slammed her fingers down on the keys in front of her, lending the piano to give out a mutilated, twanging chord. The witch could feel the song in her head so _clearly_ , sometimes, but others… it was as if she was hearing it for the first time. Today, it was as if someone turned her head and emptied it from her ears as soon as it popped into her brain.

Furiously, she turned to the books that were strewn out on the bench and floor around her, hoping she could find the missing pieces in their roughly hewn pages. She knew, however, that it had nothing to do with her composing ability (or lack thereof): it was likely that her magic was, currently, feeling stifled beneath the nerves she could practically see vibrating in every cell of her body. In anticipating what would happen that night when she faced Snape's intrusion of her mind, she supposed her magic was suffering the consequences.

Today was _not_ the day for this, it seemed. Today she had to face the attack of a talented Legilimens into her mind. Today she needed to remain calm and collected, not let herself grow frustrated or malcontent. If she did—well, then she would be allowing Snape free reign of her memories and emotions, more likely than not.

"Focus, Granger—just breathe, and _listen_ ," she whispered to herself, "You have a plan. If you panic, it won't work. Panicking got you in this mess, don't you remember? Don't. Panic."

Putting her fingers on the keys again, she traced the notes she'd managed to master—but beyond the handful of chords… it was hopeless to go further. To get angry about it would be foolish.

Sighing, she sunk down from the bench in front of the instrument, pulling one of the books from the stack on the floor into her lap. As she breathed deeply and read the paragraph on a man's attempt to domesticate a breed of trolls, the piano behind her dissolved away. After it disappeared, she found herself being lifted, the floor being molded into a plush, comfortable sofa beneath her. The sound-proof walls became the comfortable, familiar stone of the castle, and from them a hearth was carved. The fire within roared not too far from where she sat, the flames licking red and yellow and orange.

With a laugh, she realized that the Room of Requirement had adjusted to her needs. It had, after all, given her the books in front of her, hadn't it—the dullest books that could ever be found.

For a moment, she wondered… she traced a finger over the titles appreciatively. Some were from the library, and they had been difficult enough to find—by habit, she enjoyed dense subjects, and to find subjects that were boring to her was mildly difficult—but the Hogwarts library was large and expansive and full of surprises.

A fraction of the collection, however, had been the gift of the Room: she had a need for dull material, and had been gifted with the mundane journal of the so-called "troll farmer", a trio of encyclopedias of house-keeping charms, and a manual on how to safely navigate a Muggle transit system.

With a roll of her eyes, she looked upward at the carved ceiling, "Got anything about… the Song?"

She waited.

And waited.

Then she added, "… please?"

Hermione made a delighted laugh when, as she had hoped, a slender journal appeared over top of the tattered Muggle composition notebook which she had scrounged up from her trunk. The new, obviously magical book glowed softly with the power of the Room of Requirement, before cooling beneath her eager fingers.

 _Ask (nicely), and you shall receive,_ she mused to herself.

She traced the gilded letters, scripted neatly over a soft blue dragon-hide cover, "Le Anime Armoniosi."

 _Harmonious Souls_ , she translated, opening the cover. It was further inscribed with a riddle written in flowery, unfamiliar, and rather old looking handwriting.

 _At the sound of me, a man may dream  
Or stamp his feet.  
At the sound of me, a woman may laugh  
Or sometimes weep._

"Music," she breathed, knowing instantly, eagerly turning the page. From the book sprang a note, which promptly unfolded itself. Obviously it had been waiting for someone to read it for ages, as the thing nearly stretched itself into tearing in its excitement.

She grabbed it neatly, smoothing the corners gently and carefully, rubbing the soft vellum in appreciation. The parchment seemed to sigh in relief to once again be in human hands and settled down against the book as Hermione began to read.

 _To the curious and hopefully skeptical,_

 _Writ in this book is my annotation of the history and use of a most ancient and deplorable practice. This so called art, used by royalty in the earliest ages of magical civilization in Egypt and Mesopotamia, has been brought back into fashion in recent centuries, pursued vainly by those of English purity. In hopes of improving the hereditary quality of their descendants, with the guidance of the Song, the noble Houses have ensured the proudest, most capable bloodlines (or have they?) and swear by its accuracy—despite evidence of the contrary._

 _In either case, rich or poor, the Armoniosi phenomena is abused, in my opinion, by a society of unsavory agendas. While the politicians have claimed there is a need for an increase in the chances of magical birth, others boast the ability of the matching to ensure the power of the couple bonded. Finally, there are the most deplorable, who seek to use the Song to ensure those of magical birth avoid those of the opposite. By pairing young couples who are of 'compatible magic', and by definition not with Muggles, the magical population can remain untainted by 'lesser blood'. _

_Research, perpetrated by the aforementioned deplorable, has shown that wizards of "harmonious magic"—magic I say and not souls, as the author of this book has foolishly claimed—will be called to one another by sharing their Songs, and should they choose it, may share their power, too, by calling upon the bonding spell within this book. There are several bonds which were designed for this purpose, although the most potent can only be broken in death. These soul-mates (magic-mates) will be unable to unwind themselves from any such bond, should they choose one, and especially if the nature of the magic used is strong enough and mutually accepted by the participating parties—_

Hermione snapped the book shut, refusing to read further. If Snape didn't want her knowing about the Song, then she wouldn't dare read further, not until she could hide it from him. Especially not if what she had read was—well, it couldn't be true, could it?

 _But—_

 _No! Not yet, at least… just not yet._

Not only was she unprepared for the truth, she was uncertain how this would help her, in the end. Soul mates? Seers? Magical purity?

What crockery.

With a roll of her eyes, she glanced towards the Muggle clock that had found its way on the mantle at her urging nerves.

 _Oh_ , she was running out of time! Soon enough, Snape would be in her head. The journal, or book, was tucked into her bag and replaced in her hands by one of the dullest books she had ever read in her life: the life and times of Barnaby Quiddle, who worked in the ministry of magic counting out the precious sand for the Time Turners. She prayed his dry descriptions of his work would help her keep her thoughts safe and guarded from Snape's prying mind magic.

·

"Where is your shadow?"

Poppy tried to hide the jerk of her shoulders—not having noticed Severus' arrival it was rather startling to hear his deep voice from directly behind her.

Attempting mild complacency, she snipped, "My _apprentice_ , rather?"

Severus snorted derisively, and crossed his arms when she faced him with a pinched expression.

 _Oh, Severus. This is idiotic. It is pure weakness… you'd be better off keeping her out of the entire mess, rather then inviting her further into the devil's den._

 _If I turn around, I am going to drink myself stupid—would you rather that be the case?_

 _No, but… you can't believe—of all people… Just—speak to Albus, instead of her… anyone but_ her. _He might understand._

 _No he will not. He will use this information to his advantage—which naturally will be to my disadvantage._

 _Don't you mean Miss Granger's?_

 _In this case, it is synonymous._

 _Well, then this is already a foolish endeavor, as well as dangerous. She's already in jeopardy as it is, because of your fat mouth. You could have made any excuse you liked about the girl, but you chose this, out of pure idiocy. If you'd taken the time to think—_

 _There was no time!_

 _Neither is there any now, is there? You've wasted it with all of your bloody thinking. More, with talking._

He stopped thinking and spoke, "If you so wish to call her as such then _fine_ —your apprentice, Madam?"

"I do _not_ so wish, and you know it, Severus! Do you have any idea what… well, of course, you know. You of all people know that this has only put her further at risk—as if she did not already have a dozen targets on her back, now _this_."

 _And now you, as well._

Severus hid his guilt beneath curling lips. Ruffled, the nurse glared away from him, towards the wall. As she stewed, he tried to reign in the darker feelings he felt towards her for even mentioning the fact. Of course, she would blame him for it. Not only was he guilty, but she had always seen him as a villain.

 _What did you expect? She hates you. You were a horrible child and now you are a horrible man._

Did she hate him, though? He wasn't so certain any longer, not since… well, if she did not hate him, she still pitied him. That was no better.

But… would opening up to her put Miss Granger further at risk, or help her?

 _Fuck,_ if Minerva were here this wouldn't happen. He did not dare interrupt her holiday with her nephews, however. They were the only family she had, after all. She deserved to have time with them before… before all hell rained down upon them and the castle which was their home.

Vainly, Severus had thought he could be prepared for this war, all on his own, without a friend. It was not the case, now, as he was shoved further and further into the dark by the same man who had forced him to face the light. He was mind-numbingly frightened of what could happen, to the castle, to the girl, to his godson, to Potter, because of Albus' one foolish mistake.

He was also afraid of what could happen the matron in front of him, whom he'd never forgiven, yet whose kindness in those first years of his schooling could not be forgotten.

It would endanger her further, but he needed an ally—and it could not be Minerva, not this time. He needed someone who could help Granger when he couldn't… if he couldn't. Eventually, she would need to know what to do should his first plan fail, and that meant tolerating her irritable company and—perhaps—trusting her.

It took everything to be modest and not biting, but he spoke calmly and evenly, "I'd like to admit that there was no alternative, Poppy. The seed was already planted when it was discovered—but you are right. I could have spared you the trouble and made another excuse—"

"Oh, I know that, Severus… but I didn't think anyone was to blame, save the man—the monster who started this whole mess," she said, her expression softening in a way that made him feel wary, "It is not your doing—not solely at least."

"If you say."

"I have no doubt that it was Albus' hopes that she would eventually take up some form of assistances to his cause. He was too happy about the way this turned out—"

"I have no inclination to believe that is the case," he lied, "It is my opinion that Miss Granger is merely a witch with extraordinarily bad luck or an incredible lack of common sense."

 _Terrible luck, to be cursed with a wizard like me as her keeper, let alone as a—_

 _Don't even think it, you fuckwit_

 _Then she must lack of common senses to completely abhor you, then?_

 _Shut it._

Although he, too, suspected that it was the headmaster's plan, he had no _real_ idea what Albus intended for her, actually—only that this had led her further to danger rather than away from it. He doubted he could have accounted for Malfoy being so attentive for Miss Granger, who otherwise fell under the radar.

In recent years, however, due to her idiotic need to both help Potter and ingrate herself in dangerous events, she had become more of a figure of the public eye—no thanks to Rita Skeeter. Her previous involvements, no doubt, _had_ been Albus' intentions, but this… this was his fault, and hers, too. She'd fed into the headmaster's hand fairly easily, the Gryffindor.

Hermione ever remained the brave Muggleborn, standing up against the man who decried her existence. She would have found herself in the crosshairs of his wand sooner or later… Severus—and Albus—had merely expedited the process. If she hadn't been at the ministry in the first place, however, she could have been spared a few more years of childish innocence.

And Poppy would be spared the grief of having her as a pseudo-apprentice, and he would have been able to continue on this war without her Song plaguing him night and day.

But alas, he was stuck. To go to the headmaster would allow the man knowledge that Severus did not want to share. If he knew about it, he would not hesitate to force his spy onto the unsuspecting Miss Granger.

He would rather die than let either master ask _this_ crime, this sin, of him.

"I believe it is the opposite case, Severus. She has extraordinary good luck, or else she would have died at the eye of the basilisk, or during that wretched second task," Poppy admitted, "It is, however, no coincidence that the _smartest_ witch of her age is at the right hand of the Boy-Who-Lived."

 _Clever witch,_ Severus snarled in his mind. She'd always been able to dissect things that would have gone unnoticed by the others—those who were blinded by Albus' good nature.

"Hm," he drawled, not denying or agreeing, but stalking to face the mirror and glare out at the grounds.

"Well, mum's the word, then? What did you _really_ need, Severus, besides perhaps making my teeth grind with irritation?"

His dark eyes snapped to hers, innocently replying: "You make wild assumptions, as always. I was looking for the girl."

"Were you? Well that was stupid. You knew she wouldn't be in here," the nurse said with narrowed eyes, which fell downward towards the ring on his finger, "Are you certain you weren't validating that she was no in eavesdropping vicinity?"

Irritated, he glared. Once upon a time, she might have allowed him a shred of Slytherin pride and pretended not to be so observant. Those times were long behind them—long before he had graduated and taken the mark, even.

Silently, he stalked his eyes away, to face the Black Lake, unwilling to face her as he spoke.

"I assure you— _Madam_ —that I was looking for nothing else but the girl."

"Hmm."

"As you know, I'm to test her defenses in one hour, and I wanted to make it clear that she should be preparing for what is to come, rather than dallying as I knew you would let her."

She ignored the quip, and took the truer bait, "Test her defenses with Legilimency?"

"Yes."

"And…"

"And… _what_?"

The nurse pursed her lips. Her eyes danced towards the wall, avoiding his nagging glare.

"Do you need a Calming Draught?"

" _What_?"

"Severus Snape, I have known you since you were this tall," she gestured with her fingers, "You might be a stooping lurch of a man now, but you were rather vertically challenged when you were younger."

He gritted his teeth.

"And I've also known you long enough to recognize when you are feeling nervous."

"I am not _nervous_ —"

"I can't remember you actually refraining from using Legilimency on the account of law or propriety, so it must be something else that's spooked you."

His eyes cut to hers, "I have never— _never_ read your mind, if that is what you are suggesting. I'd rather choke on my own tongue than see what's lurking in that decrepit cranium of yours."

She smirked slightly when he visibly shuddered, "What I am suggesting, Severus, is that you will do what you need to, to protect the students, just as I would and will—just as we _always_ have, even if we might disagree on the parameters of our duties."

He quieted. For the barest of moments she could see his stunned expression. It was a sight to see, watching his usually stony face still into a wide-eyed frown. The face was swiped away in moments, hidden beneath a curtain of black hair.

Knowing kindness or compassion might overwhelm him, she added testily, "Why is this task bothersome to you, now, Severus?"

It came out as a hiss, "It's complicated."

She seemed surprised that he would open up to her and admit even that, "Complicated? It seems simple enough to me, Severus. Help her protect herself—won't that make your and _my_ job easier?"

"Yes."

"Do you think her incapable?"

"It is not an easy art to master," he said with narrowed eyes.

She snorted, " _That_ is the understatement of the century. Of all students, however, it's her. She'll take to it like a griffin to air."

"Not at first," he glowered at her, "Never at first."

"You might be surprised, Severus. She is talented in many ways, most of all in her singular capability for determination. If you've asked for her to prepare, I think she will be better equipped than anyone ever has been."

He knew this, but he was still frightened. Not for her… but for himself. If he succumbed to weakness, could he push her too hard? Could he break her?

"You have that look about you, Severus… you have not worn it for many, many years. Not since—"

Severus rounded his shoulders; he knew when. His sixth year, after Lupin and Black had nearly killed him. After his mother died, too, a year or so later. That was a memory he hated to relive. When he thought about it, he had the immediate urge to slip into the Divide and, yes, disappear.

"You haven't run from your problems yet, Severus. In all the time that I have known you, and despite my previous assumptions, you have never been a coward." The shoulders that were always so stiff and heavy loosened—and she knew, beneath the oily locks, his eyes had closed. Had anyone told him how brave he actually was—and not with any ulterior motive in mind? "I doubt you'll start to run now, even if whatever is bothering you is worthy enough to make a wizard like you wary. It will do you nor her any good brooding about it."

His voice was slightly ragged, deep and burdened, "Poppy… if you knew what could happen. If you knew… it is unspeakable. It is—unforgivable. If I could run, I already would have."

Severus cursed his weakness, and sighed when he admitted his guilt. To voice it aloud—he could physically feel the emotions boiling in his gut.

"Will you tell me what in Merlin's name you are talking about?"

"No," he admitted truthfully, "Not yet. But I might have to… if there is no alternative. I want you to be prepared, at least—just in case my plans for her fail or if I am unable to help her."

Poppy puffed out a breath, "Does the headmaster know about this secret of yours?"

Severus looked at her then, "He _cannot_. To do so… to do so would be damning her, as well as me. To hell with my life—I have made my own bed, sworn my life to him and that wretched Potter brat, but I will not let him dictate her future. If he think she's important enough to put my cover at risk, I can only imagine what he would do with the knowledge I have. It could sway the war, but at the cost of her free will."

Poppy made a small noise of derision, then pierced him with gray-green eyes—forever critical and insightful, "Does _she_ know about whatever it is you speak?"

Darkly, he shook his head, "No, and it will stay that way, or I will not continue to aid her. I will leave the Order, the school, if necessary, to ensure it. I can serve Albus behind the other line, if I must."

Her eyes widened, realizing he meant he would become a full spy rather than a half-one, but she refrained from accusing him of cowardice. He knew he was a coward. He knew—but there was one thing he would not let either Voldemort or Dumbledore force upon him.

"You have a strange definition of free will, Severus."

His response was a shrug of his shoulders.

With a sigh, she admitted, "I cannot give you any clear advice without all of the pieces, but… she is not a normal witch, nor is she a child. Hermione Granger is a young woman with intelligence that many would kill for. To think of her as any less is an insult to her character and yours."

He glared over the grounds, unbending.

"Oh, who am I kidding? You're too stubborn for your own good, you bastard, to listen to my advice. Why do you even seek it?"

He grunted. He had no idea, either.

Finally, he looked at her, peering at her with black eyes that seemed haunted from the distance.

Poppy held them with her own, "Severus, I am happy that you have taken the leap to not endure this on your own by coming to me, but you cannot straddle the line you have drawn forever. When you are ready to accept my aid, I will be willing… but only if Miss Granger is made aware of the dangers which she faces, too. She deserves to know."

"Poppy—"

"You and I disagree on many things, Severus. To remove her choice in the matter is unforgivable. She would agree."

He glared, "If it comes to it, even—I will consider it."

"When it comes to it," the nurse added wearily, "You will have to tell her. I think you already know that, or else you would not be so hesitant."

He lifted a brow, but nodded, then spun on his heel and left, robes flowing behind him.

She did not call after him when he did so without a word, although she did walk forward a few steps, before stopping and lifting a hand to her lips. Poppy was not fool enough to think herself forgiven, but… perhaps, there was an opportunity to be.

·

Hermione entered with trepidation, but as soon as she was enveloped in the warmth of the potions classroom, all of her nerves fell away. Professor Snape, surprisingly, was not waiting for her—the room was bereft of cauldrons, supplies, and ingredients. All surfaces were clean and bare. Only the typical adornments were left behind, although she noticed with a purse of her lips that some of the items she had not seen moved in five years were now gone.

Brushing a finger over the tabletop as she passed it, Hermione paced in front of the bench of the front most desk. She sidestepped Snape's desk, which sat at the front of the classroom and was generally unused as he preferred to stalk along the stations liberally. With small, but determined steps, she followed in the man's footsteps, starting at the front and winding around the stations, studying the tabletops and imagining that she was in his shoes, surveying his students' potions with a sneer and quipping remarks.

On one side, there were Gryffindors—boisterous, unfocused, hyper—and on the other, there were Slytherins—conniving, sneaking, contrived. Many of the children, from both houses, would see him as an unsavory character: mean, harsh, demanding, unforgiving, and unsavory. The Gryffindors would hate him for his unfairness, but the Slytherins, too, did not seem to be overly fond of them. They hid their distaste well—they were not fool enough to think he wouldn't put them in their place if he needed to.

It was a cruel sort of fairness, but it was fairness. Perhaps it was not just to treat everyone equally, as much as she wanted to believe that it should.

Then again, the Slytherins never seemed to be overly fond of anyone, and perhaps this was how they interacted with others: with contempt. Behind closed doors, were they different than they were outwardly? Perhaps that was a safer way of living—if she wanted to hurt Draco Malfoy, would she know how to do it best? Likely not. She hardly even knew who he was, let alone how to hurt him—she could hurt his pride, ten times over, but could she truly hurt him?

That depended on whether or not he was capable of any sort of feeling. She was not so sure he was, but she hardly knew him.

When she felt the door creak open behind her, she turned on her heel. The potions master entered with a grim expression his face. He appeared physically worn—his hair was stringy, today, and fell over his shoulders. It was growing too long, far longer than she would consider handsome on him. His skin was pallid, heavily shadowed underneath his dark eyes, nearly purple.

Had he not been sleeping? She hadn't noticed yesterday—she'd been blinded by determination and a sense of irritation at his impatience.

"Professor," she greeted with a nod, trying not to acknowledge the jittering nerves that began to flourish in her belly.

 _Don't panic._

"Miss Granger," he greeted, entering the classroom. The door closed softly behind him, but the sound echoed in the room dully as he walked—silently, of course—towards the classroom, "Does the setting suit you?"

"Pardon?"

"Would you prefer my office—or the Room of Requirement? The Great Hall?"

She felt her face flush, "Does it matter?"

"It might," the professor said with a strange glint in his eyes, "But it shouldn't. It all depends on your mind in the end."

"And yours," she added cheekily, trying to keep face despite wanting very much to slide into the floor to escape.

It wasn't him she was afraid of, per say, but what he would see—how he would react to her memories, her thoughts, should he breach them.

For the first time, she acknowledge that his opinions of her mattered greatly.

"And mine," he agreed stonily, before gesturing her towards the front of the room. With a flick of his wand, the benches began to glide gracefully towards the opposite wall, allowing them room to navigate. The openness of the space made sense. Sometimes, the magic could get away from the Legilimens or Occlumens and exert itself in spells cast.

"I will allow you ten minutes to inflect."

"Is it necessary?"

"It is advised," he said curtly, "I will do so regardless of what you decide. Make use of the time as you wish."

"Yes, sir," she said, softly. She hadn't really thought he would need to inflect, after all this time—he was a master Occlumens, a master Legilimens. What need did he have to open his mind any more than he already had?

To allow him privacy, she drifted to the other end of the room and turned around. She faced a cupboard, neatly closed although the hinge was slightly off and revealed a stack of books inside. Her eyes trailed over the corner of a binding, _Advanced—_ before she sighed and let her mind slip deep within.

The cold water of the Divide washed over her like a sheet of ice, and then she was standing in the Library—the place where her mind had led her in an attempt to distract her from finding her magic. To the place where she could hide, should she need it, from Snape… from everyone and everything. And if that didn't work, she had another plan. And another.

She wouldn't let Snape breach her memories, or Voldemort for that matter. Not ever—and that meant fortifying her thoughts and memories and opinions with as many layers as she could manage. Her mind's fingers trailed across the bindings as she drifted into the library, soothed by its presence as she had once been apprehensive. The books traveled on and on and on, and so she trailed beside them, touching every one, reciting words from within, recalling passages and inscriptions and summaries and reviews that she had memorized for this purpose.

"Ready?"

She heard his voice clearly and could sense him heading towards her. Her ears could not hear him—no, he was too silent of a walker. But her mind, so in tune, could _feel_ him move. It was just like when he had hidden with the spell, and her body had found his with hers and she'd turned to face him, letting her instincts lead her to him.

How was it that they were so attuned to one another that she could know—know that he was lifting his wand before she turned around?

 _We are in harmony,_ a voice muttered in her ear, drawing her eye's to snap open. The shield she'd constructed slammed down over the thoughts, rows of books rising up around it, and a maze extending on either side to lead him away from that which she wanted to hide most.

She was ready when he said the words, " _Legilimens!"_

·

Severus knew he could not hold back from her, although he should have. Without any other option, he delved within, neatly surpassing the dark water that was the edge of her mind.

As he searched, it was not for anything in particular, but merely the forefront of her thoughts. It irritated him that he could slip so easily into them, however—had she not built even a wall to block him out?

No. There was even a door which opened to signal he was allowed access. Her mind was open to him, and to everyone—the fool.

Flinching, he unconsciously covered his ears, fearing that he might hear… well.

His fears were abated when he was not immediately affronted with the sounds of her magic or a sudden intense need to melt his mind into hers, but faced with a vision of stacks and stacks and _stacks_ of books.

"Typical," he heard himself say, flicking his wand along the rows, pulling her memories from where she had placed them out. When he opened one of them, he was affronted with a memory of her childhood.

 _"Honestly, don't you two read?"_

He turned the page.

 _"Nicholas Flamel: the only known maker of the Philosopher's Stone. The stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal. There have been many reports of the Philosopher's Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel ... who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year and enjoys a quiet life inDevon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight)."_

When he went to drop the book, it zoomed back into place where he had left it.

Of course, her mind was neatly organized—far easier to navigate than Potter's. She was not as fueled by emotions as Potter had been, and her mind was far more prepared for the mind arts than his. While another Legilimens might mistake this as an opening, he knew better.

She'd prepared for him—and not with walls or moats or sentinels, but in the only way she knew how to: by outsmarting him, or at least attempting to.

"Clever girl," he murmured, although he knew better than to play the game he wanted to play. In another life, he would have reveled in slowly exploring the stacks, breaking down her defenses one by one simply for the sake of the hunt, in trying to best her. That was his style: subtlety, subterfuge.

She would have never known he was there, otherwise.

The dark lord was crueler and perhaps stupider. The headmaster was less so, but would leave no stone unturned and to do required haste when facing an accomplished legilimens. They were rougher by nature, blinded and determined by the grand scheme, foolish with power.

Severus was allowed the delicacy to pluck out details. Even then, he was tempted to pull every memory from the shelf beside him, to labor over it until he had every emotions memorized. The pull of her magic was strong, stronger than he had anticipated. There was no sound, but in her mind he was cocooned in the same sensations that it instilled in him with its melody, with her touch.

But he was prepared for that—he was prepared for everything and nothing, as he was a master of his craft. And even though it felt like ice had gripped him, and even though he knew that he would never be the same afterwards, he accepted the fate that he would deny himself the fruit of his labor. Although her mind was his, at this moment, it was not his to _claim._

He knew what it would do to him, to be in her mind, to see what she saw, to feel what she felt, but also to deny it, to refuse to go any farther than what was necessary to aid her. His resolve to protect her was stronger than his fear of loneliness.

Oh, Severus could sense her mind curling around him, offering him solace and refuge, reaching, reaching for him—

His promise to Lily was stronger than the ache he felt to accept it, and her.

Lifting his wand, he pulled out of her head. Before she could prepare again, he said the word, " _Legilimens!"_

·

Having been practiced in inflection, Hermione could, mostly, see what he was seeing, too, rather than seeing rather than just the memories he was stealing. Harry had described it as various flashbacks flying from his head to Snape's, with him being unable to take them or prevent them from being replayed over and over. He hadn't been prepared the way she had, however. He didn't know his own head.

The first time he was there, she hadn't hardly noticed he was. Just as in life, his steps were gentle, silent. The limbs which stalked through the halls like a tiger through the jungle did so just as lithely through her mind, surveying the stacks she had prepared with curiosity and, if she dared, amusement. He had been expecting something else, she supposed.

But she had read, of course, that defense required more than walls. It required creativity and illusion. While the walls would come, eventually, with time, she wanted her thoughts to be far from protected. Any single one she built would have been shattered by the potions master and Dominus Mens, so she had focused on a more effective strategy, one that would delay him.

How long she could keep up the ruse depended on her willingness and her focus, or her ability to push him out.

When he took that first memory from her, she felt oddly. It was almost as if—as if he had been there all along. When she said the words, she could almost hear his voice saying them with her. For a moment, she couldn't remember the first memory, the one without him in it, and she clutched at her wand, fingers trembling despite knowing that it would be useless against her.

Closing her eyes, she tried to replay the memory as he stalked among the books, pulling at them, but not looking into them. As she slowly crept behind him, unseen, although perhaps he felt her, she could smell him more clearly than she ever had before. The herbs intoxicated her and sent her rushing closer, reaching for him.

His form seemed repellent of her—unwilling to accept her touch and she yanked her hands back.

When he was gone, she felt bereft. She gasped for air and realized that she had been holding her breath. Her heart felt hollow and her mind felt… lonely.

" _Legilimens!"_

He was far from kind this time. The books flew from their stacks as he passed by them, tearing them with swipes of his hands, waves of his wand, with looks from his eyes that sent them scattering in fear. She winced in pain as he tore at the pages, ripping memories from their bindings, revealing the shelves behind the shelves that she had built.

She'd filled them with mundane memories, to keep him occupied, distracted while she labored to remove him, but also to keep the most important protected deep within. The passages of books, of letters, she'd memorized for this purpose came flying out first, spouting their contents.

 _To Miss Granger, wishing you a speedy recovery, from your concerned teacher, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League and five times winner of_ Witch Weekly _'s Most-Charming-Smile Award._

She winced. Snape incinerated the memory with a wave of his hand. The next flew before him, a quivering scroll which he yanked open with white fingers.

It was the past year, and she was sitting, listening to the sorting hat, " _In times of old when I was new And Hogwarts barely started The founders of our noble school Thought never to be parted: United by a common goal, They had the selfsame yearning, To make the world's best magic school And pass along their learning. "Together we will build and teach!" The four good friends decided And never did they dream that they Might someday be divided, For were there such friends anywhere As Slytherin and Gryffindor?_ _—"_

He threw the scroll at the wall where it disappeared into a puff of smoke and reached into the shelf, searching, searching for something she had hidden there. Something precious.

How had he known it was there?

 _"The Ministry consists of seven departments of which the Department of Magical Law Enforcementis the largest. All of the other departments are in some way answerable to it, with the possible exception of the Department of Mysteries—"_

Unfortunately, Snape was able to reach into the book and pluck at the passage. From there, a string of her memories formed, which he used to pull into her mind, pinching the silvery material with his fingers, so hard that it made her cry out in pain.

 _Hermione was a disgrace to her house. She could only feel fear, just fear, and a blinding need to hide or run. Which would it be?_

 _Harry made the decision for her. They would run. But oh, she would not be quick enough—_

She reached around him, trying to pull the book away. He ignored her.

"No, please—"

 _She was flying, astride a thestral, speeding forward through air thousands of feet above the ground, Harry's words echoing in her head, "Okay, then. Ron and I will take these two and go ahead, and Hermione can stay here with you three and she'll attract more thestrals—"_

 _"I'm not staying behind!"_

Had she, would she be where she was now?

Snape closed the book, dropped it, furiously heading around the bend to the next stack of books. The memories flew by as he did, searching for the next Easter egg.

 _"If being good at Divination means I have to pretend to see death omens in a lump of tea leaves, I'm not sure I'll be studying it much longer!"—_

She trailed behind him, picking up the books, trying to repair them.

 _"Oh I see, so basically, you're going to take the best-looking girl who'll have you, even if she's completely horrible?"—_

Frustrated with his violence and the embarrassing thoughts which he had taken from her, she took a book and tossed it at his head. He deflected it neatly.

 _"My parents don't read the Daily Prophet. She can't scare me into hiding!"—_

From then on, she began to try and keep him from grabbing at the books. She didn't have magic, but just as he had said: she had hands and feet and teeth. Bugger her body, her heart, this was her _mind_! It was connected, but not dependent upon magic.

She could remove him, if she had enough will. He'd said so himself.

 _"Then I'll go back again tomorrow! I'll plan his lessons for him if I have to. I don't care if she throws out Trelawney but she's not taking Hagrid!"—_

It was becoming more difficult for Snape to grab the memories. The books were resisting him. Instead of flying from the shelves, they slid away from his fingers, darted around him, finding safety on higher ground.

Unfortunatley, it was also leading him further inside the maze, closer to the center where she'd hidden some compromising memories.

He could _not_ find them! _  
_  
 _"A giant! A giant in the forest! And we're supposed to give him English lessons! Always assuming, of course, we can get past the herd of murderous centaurs on the way in and out! I — don't — believe, — him!"_ _—_

She winced, thinking of Umbridge. What had the centaurs done to her? They must have hurt her terribly, for her to have been so shell-shocked, for Pomfrey to have drugged her into a stupor. Immense guilt wormed its way into the forefront of her mind, but it was only a distraction. He was trying to weaken her, to get her to crumble under his careful machinations.

 _"Been having a nice little chat with her about whether or not I'm a lying, attention-seeking prat, have you?" Harry said loudly._ _"No," said Hermione calmly, "I told her to keep her big fat mouth shut about you, actually. And it would be quite a nice if you stopped jumping down Ron's and my throats, Harry, because if you haven't noticed, we're on your side."—_

She could feel her resolve trickling away. Snape's presence in her mind was painful, but she was enduring it bravely. When he grabbed the next book, she finally managed to grab his arm, the magic that separated them resisting but not breaking free. She didn't let go, even when he shoved her away.

Even when his magic resisted hers.

 _Hogwarts, A History_ _?"_

"What's the point?" said Ron. "You know it by heart, we can just ask you."

The potions master threw this decoy thought away and grabbed at the blue book it had hidden within it, without glancing at the title. Hermione recognized it immediately, and reached out and snatched the book with her other hand. The letter flew from its hiding place, and began to say in a deep, feminine voice.

 _"To the curious and hopefully skeptical"—_

Hermione shoved at the weight that was pressing into her mind, promptly pushing Snape out. Blinking, the two worlds—her mind and the outside one—melded into one in a dizzying fashion, returning her to the land of the living and breathing.

"Took you long enough," the wizard smirked at her, drawing her dazed eyes to dart to him.

She opened her mouth to say something vile, but could only manage a breathy, "You let me."

She doubled over, gasping for breath. Her head was on fire! It was pounding, so loudly she thought there was someone inside of it, punching her temples from the inside out.

" _Accio,"_ she heard the Professor say. Her fingers jerked and she realized, with a start, that she'd physically taken his wand from him.

It wasn't exactly articulate, but it was a start. It was enough to get him out. She would need to be stronger the next time, to do it without physical touch or magic. Still, she had managed something, and for that she could feel proud.

"No," he admitted with a sort of frown that did not reach his eyes when her face broke into a smile of realization, "You managed that on your own, Granger."

She gaped at him when he rubbed his temple and then turned away from her. For a moment, she thought he might trick her—and flinched when he turned back around. He had, however, conjured a goblet and filled it with water, then offered it to her.

"We are finished," he said, "For today."

With weary hands, she grabbed the cup. After she'd gulped her fair share, she managed to ask, "Really? That's all?"

"It's been two hours, witchling," he look almost pained to say it. There was a flatness to his face that hadn't been there before, and his eyes were heavily guarded. Thankfully for her, however, it was not accompanied by his typical snarky tongue. Instead, he just seemed tired, "I would wager that is punishment enough for the both of us."

"Oh," she said, "It didn't feel so long, at all."

"No," dark eyes met hers and he asked, softly, "Do you feel well?"

"I have a headache," she admitted with a wince.

His lips quirked slightly, "I assure you, Granger, that were I the dark lord, you would be suffering far worse than a headache. Consider yourself fortunate."

Silenced, she sipped from her water. He reached into a drawer and procured a potion. The darkness that the mention of Voldemort had brought was instantly lightened… she managed a small laugh when he handed it to her.

At his quirked brow, she said, "A potion for one of my various problems, as expected."

"And a meal," he said sternly, narrowing his eyes at her.

Unexpectedly, she could not deny that her stomach was voraciously hungry. The nerves that had plagued her for the past few days dissolved, replaced by a strange contentedness. It was more than just accomplishment—it was hope.

And he'd given it to her, once again.

"And a meal," she agreed. She felt like an idiot, but she somehow managed to stumble over asking, "Will you eat with me?"

His dark eyes seemed surprised. After a time, he gave a stiff nod, then called for Dobby, and led her away from the potions classroom, where eating foot was logically forbidden.

When they ate, he did not speak, but the room seemed loud with something—after a time, she realized it was her song, softly drumming against the pulse in her neck. The tune was different, though. Somehow, it seemed… stronger. Clearer—but also changed, in a way. What had changed?

Satisfied with it, whatever it was, and the outcome of the lesson, she ate her fill, leaving only a polished plate and an empty mug behind when she departed from his office, heading immediately for the Room of Requirement to investigate.


	19. Through the Darkness

**A/N: This is a relatively short chapter for TDT, but I figured an update was in order, regardless. Please enjoy! I want to get this thing going... so far, it's a lot of stuff jammed in a short amount of time. Also, I apologize for the delay: I've been working a lot more and have class at nights, plus I recently was sick as hell and couldn't even think, let alone write. Hopefully, the slump I've been will be alleviated once my classes get through with these next couple of weeks.**

·

Chapter Nineteen  
 _Through the Darkness_

·

 _Dear Hermione,_

 _Greetings from the Burrow! Surprised? Me too… to be honest, I didn't think it would happen so soon, or at all, but Dumbledore himself rescued me from the Dursleys' yesterday. I've never seen Vernon so speechless._

 _Aunt Petunia looked as if she'd seen a ghost—I imagine it would be a bit like having Gandalf for tea (only you would understand that reference… Ron looked at me like I was flying pig—he's reading over my shoulder). Anyway, maybe I can show you the memory one day and you can tell me what you think of their reactions. I, for one, will be using it when I cast my patronus next!_

 _Before he dropped me off, Dumbledore took me to see a retired professor. It's a long story, but I think I know the identity of our new Defense instructor. Dumbledore used me to convince him to come back, and I felt oddly about him asking it of me, but… he says we need something from him. What it is, I have no clue. You'll figure it out before I do. But Dumbledore's promised to tell me everything, when I'm ready and I will, of course, tell you, if he lets me._

 _Why didn't you write me about his hand, by the way? It didn't seem to hurt him terribly… I suppose you didn't think it was important. Unless there's a reason to be worried? You'd tell me, wouldn't you?_

 _All in all, I hope you are doing well. Ron and Ginny say hello, and that you have hardly written them. I told them you are working under Snape and they instantly understood. Ginny says she wishes she was with you, considering Fleur is floating around—oh yeah, Fleur and Bill are getting married! She wants me to remind you that she is now called 'Phlegm'… er, well, I said it, so there._

 _We all wish you good luck, Hermione. I haven't learned a thing from Snape in four years, but you've always been the smart, level-headed one. If he hasn't driven you bonkers already, then you'll likely survive the summer._

 _Maybe you can visit for my birthday?_

 _Love,_

 _Harry_

 _·_

"Impedimenta!"

Rather than cast a shield to deflect his curse, Hermione dodged it. Although he was training her in their use, she had learned very quickly that to use the talismans meant casting as briefly and as smartly as she could. While other wizards might have kept a Protego going the entire battle, she would have to rely on quick feet and an even quicker brain. The more powerful the talisman, the quicker it drained. The shielding charm was arguably a very powerful spell and so the talisman drained very quickly, too quickly than was considered strategic.

Hence, why an amulet would serve her better, but alas… she would need to adapt, for now. Snape made sure she was aware of that fact, ruthlessly.

Hermione had learned quickly that once inside the Room she was at his mercy for however many hours he decided to keep her, and only when she left could she hope to let her guard down from him. Snape was relentless despite her obvious struggles: not only was he casting spell after spell, they were wordless, sometimes wandless. He did not give her any sort of handicap, let alone a running head-start. But she was just as quick and twice as determined.

"No, don't set your knees," he instructed coolly when she spun to avoid a hex then wobbled, trying to gather her footing, "You need to be prepared to match my pace and meet me step for step, mentally—just like dancing, not that you were talented in that either."

Snape seemed different in this room. Stringy black hair was tied back from his face, and he wore clothing that clung to his slight form—all black. The robes inhibited his movements and he never arrived with him as he did in all her other lessons. Without them to shield his slight torso, long, powerful legs and surprisingly lean arms, he appeared so lithe and quick.

Vulpine.

Irritated with his jab, she ducked his next spell and glared, "I didn't know you danced, Professor."

His eyes seemed to glitter in the light: they were, for once, alive, as they never had been in any of her memories. He stalked towards her with them as she adjusted her stance, bouncing on her heels, and she felt instantly afraid of whatever lay beyond. Behind the glaze of indifference lay a man of many secrets, a man whom she hoped to find.

… but not yet. Not until she had her magic.

"I've been known to when the occasion demanded it," he answered smoothly, "Although I am much more equipped for dueling."

"No kidding," she muttered with a snort.

He smirked and his wand lifted, slashing in the air in a way that made her slightly afraid—too much like Dolohov's Curse for her liking.

In a fit of stupid fear, she activated one of the strategic talismans. From it spilt black smoke, as black as his eyes, which obscured the area all around them. It allowed her to slip from her hiding place to another, safer one. Just like the dark water of the Divide, she was safe: safe from him, from the world. She could find balance that would allow her clear, quick thoughts.

The impregnable water drifted around her, a cocoon of aching nothingness. But his voice pierced it just as easily as a knife to soft butter, proving her safety not so easily won.

"Hermione," he crooned through the pure blackness, calling her back to him.

The crystals in her hand were clutched so tightly that they bit into her skin. Hermione closed her eyes, however useless it was. There was nothing to see. She and he had to rely on their other senses to traverse the infinite expanse of nothingness.

It was foolish, but she reached for him in the dark with her mind—if he were a Death Eater, a malicious one at least, this method would be useless to her. She couldn't find them in the darkness like she could _him_.

"Stupefy!"

She cast the shield just in time. The Protego seared the tender flesh of her palm—it could not protect totally. The shock of both at once sent her reeling, spinning and spinning. When she stumbled forward, clutching, she found Snape was in front of her, drawing her arms around him, his face half-obscured by the blackness. Long, elegant fingers pulled the talismans from her hand, forcing them to fall with soft thunks around them. She couldn't move.

When he leaned forward, his face seemed less-lined. In his eyes she found concern and tenderness. The warmth was unnerving.

"P-professor?"

He ignored her, threading his fingers with hers for a moment, before leaving them to rest at the nape of her neck. Hermione felt her heart pounding in her chest. At his touch, her body began to come back to life, waking from the sleep of his stunning magic.

They began to dance, him leading her along, hands at her narrow waist. She could only stare up at him dazedly, stumbling to follow him.

When she ducked her head to gaze down at her feet, stunned, he leaned forward, whispering huskily in her ear, "Do I frighten you, witchling?"

"N-no," she muttered. Was this a trick? "Never."

"You are a terrible liar."

The smile that quirked his lips made her stomach flip and she lifted her eyes to his, falling forever in his dark eyes. She closed hers when he leaned towards her, surely intent on her mouth. She felt his nose brush her cheek (how could it not?). But although his face was near enough to touch against hers, the firm softness of his mouth never found hers. She heard herself moan in desperation to feel him, to taste him and clutched for him—

But her hands only grasped air. When her eyes sprang open, he was gone, and Hermione was no longer in the Defense Room, but in one filled with thousands of books, trinkets, and lost things. She hesitated to touch anything, remembering the warnings given while at Grimmauld Place. Her eyes darted from side to side, searching. Not unlike the mazelike library of her mind, she found herself drifting through stacks, wandering aimlessly and yet searching—searching for her magic?

No, searching for _him._

Eventually, she found herself rounding a corner into a dead end. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight: he was a black shape against the raging varieties of colors, the bright lights and subtle shadows in the gaps between piled junk, which rose like pillars beside him. His back was to her and he was facing a large mirror.

She couldn't feel him any longer in that way she did, because he wasn't aware of her—he was blocking her out, and even though she could see him she felt as if he was far away from her.

Unsure of whether he would welcome her, she stumbled backwards, darting to hide behind a large armoire. She could hear him speak, but his low, deep voice was soft and broken, "… you wouldn't even spare me the kindness of knowing she was alive—as much hell as it was to imagine her with you, at least she was breathing. At least she was happy."

She felt her heart sink at the sound of his grief, his anger. Was _she_ —for the way he spoke the word was filled with such emotion, more emotion than she had ever heard from him, that the importance of this she was undeniable—was she the one who had made him such a bitter man?

"He was always a bitter bastard, even when we were kids."

She swallowed a scream, but stumbled backwards. The armoire did not budge, but seemed to absorb the shock of her weight.

A man, the one who looked like Harry, approached her, smiling gently. She shuddered away, but he just chuckled. She reached for her wand, but did not lift it. After all, the man looked so much like Harry—just not the right eyes.

"He hated me, you know," the man murmured to her, "from the second he saw me."

Hermione said nothing, but followed his eyes—hazel, not green—as they flew to the tortured professor—whom she could no longer see, "But he loved her from the second he saw _her_. Everyone loved her that way."

"Who?"

The man urged her to watch.

She hesitated, however. Should she intrude? Did she have a right?

"He needs you, now," the faux-Harry held out a hand, "Won't you help him?"

Hermione stared at his palm, uncertain. Eventually, however, she took it—she couldn't abandon the man when he had sacrificed so much for her, not ever.

Almost-Harry led her around the corner. She had so many questions for him, but her voice was swallowed as she tried to use it… when she once again saw him, Snape stepped forward towards the Mirror of Erised. She could not see what he saw in it, besides his reflection and her own. His eyes flicked to hers, surprised, before he dropped his gaze and clenched his fists at his sides.

The man beside her squeezed her hand, "Don't let him hide from you… find him through the darkness."

She nodded and removed her hand from his.

Her voice was slightly scared, but determined, "Professor?"

He gritted his teeth but lifted his eyes to meet hers. They were full of darkness, of misery and grief. Suddenly, she found herself beside him, and she was looking into her reflection. She could see only the images of the two of them, and she pondered that in curiosity, distracted from her mission.

The man beside her turned to look at her, eyes dark and lost and eternally lonely, before he lifted his wand and pointed towards his heart. She heard her own gasp and she reached for his hand, but the words were already spoken, too quickly for her to stop or interrupt.

" _Obscuro_!"

The world fell to darkness once more and swallowed her scream.

"MEOW!"

Hermione jerked awake, clutching the green throw and gasping. Crookshanks stood on her chest and was nudging her face with his, had been for quite a while if the fur caked to her shirt were any indication.

"Oh," she groaned. Her body ached terribly. Her mind, however, felt worse. She felt as if she'd slept too long, or perhaps too hard.

Orange eyes met amber, and she made a soft sound of distress. The half-kneazle held her gaze.

She dropped her face into her hands and sighed, "What was that all about?"

"Meow."

"Right," she smirked in his direction, then rolled onto her feet, shaking her head, "Thanks for the insight."

He padded over to the emerald throw and butted it with his head, but she was already headed for the shower, rubbing her temples with her palms and cursing her wandering mind.

·

 _There was movement behind him. He turned his head to look through the reflection, and found Lily's face being replaced with_ hers. _The shock of it was too much for him and he gritted his teeth, stomach churning, dropping his eyes. One witch could not replace the other. They were incomparable... as different as night and day._

 _Weren't they?_

 _Miss Granger filled in the space beside him, suddenly, and Lily abandoned him. Through the glass, he could see James Potter lingering amongst the stacks of books, staring at him knowingly. The smugness in his face made him angry, almost nauseously so._

 _Rather than face him any longer, he lifted his wand and pointed it towards his heart._

 _"_ Obscuro!"

Severus stirred, rolling over from his side to his stomach to press his face into the pillow. His eyes opened slowly, painfully, peeking through his hair and the pillowcase towards the murky, green-tinged water of the Black Lake. He'd been out late the night before, at the knee of the dark lord. It wasn't often that he returned un-tortured in body. Typically, however, if he had escaped physical punishment, then he returned suffering in soul and mind. Having watched Muggles be tortured and raped for sport, and trying, vainly, to corner Draco to ensure he was adjusting as well as he could, Severus had not been exactly in the best of mindsets when he had returned to the castle.

After reporting to Albus, he had planned to brew to clear his mind, considering it was times such as these that made him resistant to sleep. To his surprise, his body had demanded it of him, leading him to collapse into his sofa before he could even make it to his lab. Sometime in the night, he'd dragged himself to bed (even when exhausted his sleep was always fitful, leading him to wake often in the night, usually to turn onto his stomach). Of course, in his weakened state, he would dream of her and Potter, of all people… he knew he did not deserve reprieve from his mistakes, but Merlin.

For a moment, he closed his eyes again, and he could recall her song in his head, her feather light fingers tracing his. It struck a chord in his heart and made him slacken against the sofa in defeat. To resist her was to save her… and, of course, she was a child, too. He wanted nothing to do with the girl. Or so he could lie to himself, anywhere but in dreams. Outwardly, however, he could resist.

At least for now.

·

"Focus!"

"I'm trying," she heard herself snapping. It had been days and there had been no sign of improvement where potions were concerned.

She simply didn't have enough magic for it to work. The school year was approaching rapidly, however. If she couldn't show even a measly amount of effort, how could she ever face her teachers, her classmates?

She would be humiliated.

"The results of your 'trying'," the potions master drawled with a dripping, unforgiving tone, "have begun to bore me, Granger."

Another Hermione would have fled from such scrutiny. This Hermione, however, was hanging very a very thin thread—one that snapped at the very insinuation that her maximum efforts were considered unexciting to the very man who had been sitting at his desk for an hour without so much as a care towards her presence.

She spun away from the cauldron—strike one, she thought in her head… visual contact was the only way she was going to get the magic to work, if she could at all, "How ungracious of me, _sir._ I apologize… I didn't know that my suffering was a source of your entertainment!"

He showed no emotion save that infuriating quirked brow.

As she glared at him, he spoke darkly, "Turn around."

"Not this time!" She said, wanting very much to reach for her wand and use it on him, consequences be damned, "I want to know why you think my efforts are so 'boring'… _sir_. I want you to tell me exactly what you find so bloody bland about my situation!"

Behind her, she failed to realize that the potion that had begun to congeal over after being left to simmer so long without proper magic to feed it. Snape did nothing to reveal that he, however, was quite aware of what was happening.

"Why, you ask? For one, your fear of failure has inhibited you from the moment you stepped into this castle, Miss Granger, despite my advice otherwise," the potions master began to say, "And even after facing it in your mind, you are still letting it rule you—letting the opinions of others rule you. I find that, quite plainly, a rather tedious and overused excuse for someone who is clearly suffering from some form of neurosis."

As her mouth gaped at him, the cauldron behind her began to quell, growing into one, large, waiting bubble, expanding higher and higher and higher—her temper seemed to rise with it.

"Neuros—" the witch sputtered, her face red and her eyes alive with anger, "All due respect, Professor, you can go f—"

Unfortunately, or perhaps the opposite, the rest was drowned out at the sound of a great exploding pop. Snape did not save her from being covered in splattering potion—it was a harmless solution, although it would stain her clothes terribly.

The young witch could only stand in shock, hunched over, eyes wide with surprise, horror, and delight. Only when the potion began to drip down her fingers to the floor did she dare move. Snape dropped his gaze from hers, his lips were smirking as she wiped her fingers on her jeans, "You are far too predictable."

Her glare was enough to broaden his scowl into a twisted sort of smile. The witch found she could not move when she saw it—had he ever smiled before? She didn't think she'd ever seen him do it. Even this one was an expression of half-pain.

"Quit gaping," he said, swiping his face clean, his lips tight over the teeth he'd only hardly revealed, "Don't you have a mess to clean up?"

It was her turn to scowl.

·

The night before his birthday, Harry's letter lay atop the books that were sprawled over her bedside table, beneath a set of formal ministry letters which had accompanied her OWL results. She had not written a reply to her friend until that morning, despite having received it nearly a week prior—she was uncertain how to ask to visit for his birthday, let alone whether the request would be granted or not. In the end, she'd decided to decline it altogether, and claim she was not granted permission.

The OWL scores, once highly coveted, were skimmed and forgotten the day after receiving them: she had gotten eleven. Two had been record-breaking, much to her surprise and delight. One Exceeds Expectation in Defense—she had seen that coming from a mile away. She didn't think Harry's casting a patronus had helped her case in the practical, either.

Amongst the letters were offers of early internships from the Department of Mysteries, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and the Administrative Offices of Cornelius Fudge. They were all folded and tucked into her trunk, away from prying eyes (except for Fudge's which she shredded viciously). There was another, which was accompanied by a lime-green information packet from St. Mungo's. Because Lord Voldemort knew about her little ruse, the ministry had been informed of her pseudo-apprenticeship. It was now legally sanctioned, and should she wish, at the end of the year she could take the apprenticeship evaluation—even without her NEWT scores—allowing her to jump-start some of the grueling entry-level processes of healer's training.

That letter was not as cherished as it might have been, but she did not disavow it completely. She knew it was Dumbledore's doing, perhaps an apology for getting her stuck in this mess. It was not by her own merit: St. Mungo's did not scout OWL results and they had never before offered anyone this sort of accomplishment. There was too much on her mind, besides, to worry about the future, as the present was currently so demanding.

It had been a fortnight since she'd first met Professor Snape for Occlumency lessons, and her body was knackered from all of her activities. Between learning to juggle the talismans, keeping up with the dull first aid training Poppy was teaching her, failing at potions, and trying to ward Snape from her darkest memories (which now starred him in strange, cryptic dreams), she was also researching the Song, magical theory, healing arts, _and_ Legilimency (in vain hopes of outsmarting the Legilimens that was proving time and time again how out of her element she was).

Was there anything Snape was unskilled in? The only subject which she had not earned an Outstanding was Defense, and it seemed to be a cruel joke that she was learning it now without _real_ magic from someone who was a master of it. Although Snape was certainly a genius at potions, he was also gifted in dueling and proved himself to be both traditionally magically apt and also physically fit, to her surprise. She learned from Poppy that he was certified in Defensive Magic, by means of a most prestigious post-secondary school in Norway.

And he made certain she knew it to: there was no relenting in his craft, even as behind as she was.

It made no sense that he was passed over for the position of Defense instructor, except if you considered his being a Death Eater—which was hardly fair, as he had never been tried as one. That was nothing compared to the rest. Whereas her former teachers seemed inept or downright mad, Snape was cool-headed and creative, blending magic, intelligence, instinct, and illusion to defend himself. She was learning, too, that it was a lethal, intimidating style that likely had saved his life on many occasions. If she wanted to survive, she would need to master it, too.

If only she could exude such grace and power. Even before she'd lost her magic, she could never hope to be as skilled as he was. Her admiration of him grew stronger every day, despite his efforts to demean her.

In dreams, she allowed it, but outwardly, she tried to pretend that nothing had changed. It would only be a matter of time, however—she could feel her mind growing stronger and more resistant to him, and even to Professor Dumbledore. When he passed her one morning on the way back from a run over the grounds, she could feel him prying. Instead of pushing him out, she fed him false memories. Over dinner, he gave her a surprising tip.

"Try not to smile next time, Miss Granger," he murmured towards her. Beside him, the potions master smirked into his wine.

"Noted," she replied with a straight face, which quickly broke out into a grin when he twinkled his eyes towards her.

·

"Magic cannot heal every ailment."

"Don't I know it?" Hermione said bemusedly.

The nurse paused to give her a pinched smile, "In many cases of magical illness, it is necessary that a mediwitch or mediwizard employ a variety of test treatments. Not all curses, naturally, have existing counters—"

"What are common treatments to these curses?" Hermione interrupted curiously.

"Like in your case, potions are often helpful, depending on the wound or state of bewitchment. Typically they can only offer temporary solutions. Rituals are often the most effective, but are rarely used considering how personal and costly they are."

"Costly?"

"Sacrifices," the nurse began to say with a strange expression, "Are never cheap, Miss Granger. If the cost of the curse was say, the death of another, the ritual to counteract it would require equal recompense. Hence… costly. Thankfully for you, the only cost of your curse was a spell—the rest was merely auxillary."

She asked no more pressing questions after that, wondering what price Snape's injury had cost.

·

"Expelliarmus!"

The wand flew from the professor—having been temporarily blinded by her curse and then shoved backwards using her own body weight in a fit of stupid courage—and into her hand.

Hermione didn't even have a chance to grab it. Snape was too quick for his own good, and he jutted out a leg, kicking the back of hers and sending her falling hard onto her back, effectively knocking the wind out of her. Two of the talismans flews from her hands, scattering. Snape's wand missed her hand and smacked into the suit of armor behind her.

It soared back into the wizards hand as if rebounding. She lifted hers, gasping to say the words necessary to use the talisman.

"Reduc—!"

Snape's wand was underneath her chin, however, preventing her. She hesitated, unwilling to finish the curse. If she did, he might be fatally injured.

He knew it, too, and preyed upon her hesitation with a smug, twisted smile. The professor hovered over her, lethal, poised, despite the fact that his lanky hair was sticking to his sweating forehead and his eyes were blazing in that way they did when he was dueling. Normally, he was cool and composed during their lessons, but today—today, it seemed like he'd fed off her energy, rather than the other way around.

Something seemed different about him. She couldn't name it, so she just looked up at him, breathing through her nose. Something in his face… for a moment, she could feel him brushing against her mind with his, perhaps—

She threw up a shield, to which his lips twitched in slight discomfort.

"That was stupid, Granger," he murmured down at her, turning away—hiding her eyes from hers.

"I don't have time to trick you," she snapped.

"Then find some," he countered, hardly retaining his irritation with her, "Or you will find yourself exposed."

She noted his anger and took her opportunity. She made to move her knee, as if to kick him in a weak spot (he'd taught her to play dirty, so he was to blame). He had been expecting it, however, and deflecting it with his arm.

While he shoved at her, she lifted her hand, shuffling the three talismans she held, and her wand, pointing them both directly at his chest. It was one of the most powerful talismans, but she could tell from the shape of it that it was the one she needed.

" _Stupefy_!"

He was able to deflect most of it, however, being too quick for her even with her advantage. By turning and casting a shield, he absorbed most of the spell into his shoulder. The look of pain on his face was enough to send her reeling forward, worried about the skin she knew was tender throughout his body. She'd hit him with a stinging hex once on his back and he'd only barely covered the look of sheer pain before knocking her flat on her arse so hard it had stolen the wind from her lungs.

It was too late for her to remember the consequence of her previous hesitation. Her guard was down long enough that he managed to bind, gag, and blindfold her in even fewer wand movements.

" _Rennervate_ ," he said with a growl, grunting with pain and irritation, but also—if she dared to say—smug amusement. He'd brought his arm back to life.

After another incantation she was freed, but he was far away from her, standing at the edge of the room, grasping at what composure he could while looking so deliciously—

 _No. No. No._

He pushed back his hair with both hands, eyes closed and slightly vulnerable as he did so, and she felt a bit of her resolve crumble. He was standing confidently, legs planted, sleeves rolled back so that the tongue of the Dark Mark peeked over his sleeve. For a moment, she appreciated his slender musculature, before she remembered her dream and felt her cheeks warm.

Wanting very much to disappear, she stepped backwards, "Sir—"

"Maybe not so predictable _today_ , Granger," he said with a slightly sneer, opening his eyes to her, and lifting his wand again, "But we're just getting started. There is vast room for improvement, don't you agree?"

She licked her lips, and only barely sidestepped the burning hex he'd sent towards her.

·

"How is Hermione's progress, Severus?"

"Miss Granger is doing fine," he answered gruffly.

"Just fine?"

"Mediocre, average, unsubstantially adequate," his employee stressed, "Her magic is improving at a painstakingly slow pace, but… it is improving. Her mental shields are… remarkably strong, but more importantly she is smart enough not to rely on them alone. She has learned to employ several tactics both actively and subconsciously, but such was expected from Hogwarts' resident know-it-all."

"I see," the aging man answered, lifting a watered down brandy to his lips, "You do not think she is simply employing the style of her master?"

"I am hardly her master," Severus hissed.

The headmaster seemed amused, "You are mentoring her, are you not?"

"Out of necessity," Severus drew his eyes towards the tumbler, slightly narrowed at the hypocrisy, "At this point, I feel more akin to a combination of nurse, body-guard, and revisionary tutor. Her knowledge of defense is abhorrently awful, I might add."

The man's blue eyes twinkled in a genuine way at the young man's version of a joke. Slowly, ever so slowly, their relationship was mending.

"Well, you are the Defense instructor now," Albus added, "I'm sure our students will shape up quickly enough."

Severus scowled, "Not nearly enough as they should."

"No," he admitted, knowing the wizard still had to put up a front that he was assisting the dark lord rather than opposing him, "We can't afford that luxury, I fear."

"If only," the man drawled darkly, scowling further. His eyes darted away, not meeting his employer's as they might have, to share in the moment of dry humor.

Albus ignored the pang of sadness. Severus still resented him for forcing his hand, that he knew, and for his mistake, but he was in many ways still his most important ally. He had faith that one failure would not destroy years of confidence and trust; he had made mistakes before, of course, but they were often necessary and unavoidable. This one was a catalyst to events that would not fare well for either of them—he could understand the wizard's frustration and could be patient for forgiveness.

To be perfectly honest, there was no one else he depended on more than Severus. Although he kept things from the man, he did so out of love for him, not out of mistrust. And as much as he asked of him, he did what he could to make his life easier—to prevent him from the guilt that led him to seek escapes that were far from healthy. It just so happened that the man had absolutely terrible luck—even when Albus tried to spare him, he always ended up suffering.

Still, Severus had been a steadfast servant despite his hardships. There was nothing he couldn't ask of him, nothing he would not do to ensure the future his lost love had desired—even submit himself to hatred when he had been hungry for love his entire life. With Lily's death, he had accepted that he did not deserve love of any kind, even in such small forms of admiration from students which he protected. Although it pained him to admit, Albus had not believed him deserving, either, in the beginning, but when he had trained him in Occlumency and seen the horrors of his childhood, the grief over his mother, the anger for his father, the desperate, aching love he felt for his dear friend, he had realized what a grave mistake it was to have underestimated him.

Given the opportunity to change one action in his life, it would have been to intervene in Severus Snape's first years at Hogwarts. Had he known of something good so early on, something far more solid than a friendship with Lily Evans, he might yet be the man he was always meant to be. He might have been a fierce opponent of Lord Voldemort—so much so that the man's rise might never have happened. Alas, his spirit had been crushed before it had even been given a chance to rise and remained beaten, thanks to poor circumstance and judgement on his part.

And when Harry Potter came to Hogwarts, the man had only grown more withdrawn, more depressed. It did not rear its head often, but his melancholy was in part caused by that curse which he suffered and which could not be cured—at least not without great cost. Albus knew of it and he knew why the man had not yet sought relief. He had long ago accepted it as penance for his crimes, a necessary punishment for his wrongdoing.

While Lily's death had been penance enough, in the headmaster's eyes, the young man believed that no punishment was fitting of the things which he had done in his youth. He knew little forgiveness in his life, even from himself. It had much to do with the fact that although he had never taken joy in them, he had done them knowing it was wrong. He had done so happily, because he had thought he would belong, because he had craved respect and affection he had not received from his parents or even his dearest friend.

And even though he had done most out of a desire to survive, he did not think himself worthy of forgiveness for even those things, because Severus thought the world would be better off without him. Had he stood up against the men who pressured him, the madman who seduced him with power then demanded his life if he turned his back to him, he would have been killed: and his life was not worth the ones who he had destroyed. Hence, his lack of respect for his own well-being.

There was little hope left in the man by the time Harry arrived—and after the dark lord returned, he had seen a little bit of Severus die each day. To return to the life which he so agonized over was devastating… and yet he was stalwart and devoted. He would not turn his back on his promise to avenge Lily. He would die for her son, for her memory.

All in all, Albus had underestimated Severus Snape. Even though he had wondered if he was beyond hope, there was a purpose in him that he had not had in many, many years—a sense of honor, perhaps. The headmaster did not dare name it, for fear that he would drive the young man away, and also because he had little hope himself.

There was a high chance that Severus would not survive—that he would die, too, as Albus had always thought he would as the unsung hero. He had assumed, many years before, that the man would be one who could only be loved in death… not because he was incapable of receiving love, but because he was resistant to accepting it any form, even from Albus, who, despite what the young man might think, did love him almost as if he was his son. The task ahead of him would be the worst yet, and could have grave consequences for them both, but… but it might have a silver lining, if Albus played his cards right.

And he'd been saving a few cards just for this occasion, even in spite of himself.

"So you do find yourself caring for the girl at all?"

"Don't be stupid," Severus snapped, but he dropped his eyes immediately from Albus and stood abruptly, "If you want to ask me inane questions like this, please redirect them through the Floo. I shan't be bothered with climbing all the way up here for menial conversation with you at your whim."

"As you wish, Severus," he answered jovially, "Please, enjoy your evening off. You deserve it."

The man snorted derisively and stormed away.

Once he was gone, the headmaster didn't know how to feel about this development: that Severus did indeed care for the girl… or that there was a chance that he might be able to survive, with her help, and that a life beyond the war might be worth something to him.

He glanced down at his arm, tracing the dying flesh with the fingertips of his good hand. Fawkes, beside him, made a trilling sound.

"Yes, my old friend. I think so, too, but perhaps it is too early to say," he answered, "Even so, he must not know, not until the very end. He will not accept it for himself. Let us do the hard work, this time."

Better to let his one last gift to the man be a surprise one. Severus did love those.


	20. Oddities

**A/N: So, (obviously) I was having A LOT of trouble writing this chapter. I finally figured that the reason for that was there was nothing interesting going on in the time-frame I was trying to write for—so if it seems like I jumped too far ahead, that's why!**

·

Chapter Nineteen  
 _Oddities_

·

In the third week of August, Hermione felt no stronger, physically nor emotionally, than she had since "rediscovering" her magic. She'd managed a spark, once or twice, but only after great strain on her part and seeming indifference on Snape's.

For obvious reasons, there was no guarantee that she could heal with magic, but her medical training was developing rather rapidly. Despite her magical impotence, or perhaps in spite of it, Madam Pomfrey quizzed her weekly. Her young apprentice was also tested bi-weekly on her knowledge of healing. Naturally, she'd passed each assessment with flying colors. This was not a surprise for any party, save perhaps Snape, whose expectations had hardly lowered.

During their lessons, the nurse focused on training her in the practices that did not particularly require magic, such as dressing, cleaning, and diagnosing wounds of various kinds (lacerations, burns, abrasions, etc.). In the past week, she had briefly practiced stitching, bone-setting, and the like, as well as perfecting her balm-and-poultice applying skills. Her "mistress" assured that while magic could achieve a great many things, the dummies she provided were not nearly as squirmy or mouthy as real breathing, whining patients. If the mediwitch was to be trusted (and she had no doubt she was) her skills as a healer were yet to be tested to the fullest, considering the only creature in Hogwarts in need of medical care was, funnily enough, her own person.

Equally as ironic, there was very little _she_ or anyone could do to help her.

The study of medicinal potions alone was more than enough to keep her busy, although she did practice stitching into the skin of bananas. Yet without much else to do in her down time, she'd also delved deep into studying the spells for the upcoming year (despite being unable to truly learn them) and had revised all of her summer homework to prepare for the inevitably most stressful school year of her life.

In what little free time she had that she was _not_ studying, she found herself reaching eagerly for distractions—in the afternoons which Snape forwent their lessons in order to brew "in peace from her offensive Gryffindor presence", she often foraged along the edges of the Forbidden Forest, identifying medicinal herbs and drawing them in a small journal which her parents had gifted her. She practiced her hand at the piano (miserably). Guiltily enough, she'd begun to give up on ever being able to master the blasted thing, but something called her to the room late in the night... perhaps it was loneliness, or maybe stupidity. And although she had yet to open it again, she had not forgotten about the book, the one about the Song. The brave witch had yet to gather the courage to read it and instead researched (for fun) the mysteries of the Black Lake during the minutes before bed when she wanted her mind to wander.

When the occasion called for it (typically after a letter from her parents or Harry), she indulged in taking a long soak in the prefects' bath. This typically ended with a good cry, but nothing she would call abnormal.

Yet... all in all, and besides the aforementioned, her summer was uncharacteristically uneventful. Her days were hardly much to write home about, although she knew Harry would delight in any detail about Snape barking at her for tripping during sparring or for snapping at her when she wasted ingredients during brewing. But then again, he wasn't... too bad. He hardly left the castle, and was more often than not in her company. He was not as close, per say, as Madam Pomfrey was to her, but he _had_ become (more of) a constant in her life, being present more than he ever had in her daily routines. Consequently, it was strange to be so used to his presence, because even though she still found that she knew so little about him, she was far more comfortable with Snape than she ever had been (comfortable in a sense, of course—who could ever be completely so in the presence of such a striking, unpleasant man?).

She had no reason to withhold from Harry, except perhaps honor. It wasn't as if he'd changed much (hence all the barking and the snapping). She knew that they had not surpassed the barrier that divided them as the hated potions professor and the golden girl of Gryffindor. After all, for days on end, he would be cold and sometimes vile to her—particularly after a night where he would leave the castle, assumedly for Order meetings or… well, other _outings_. Not that he knew that she had made such a correlation.

Naturally, after much pleading, Dobby had agreed to be her spy and was now feeding her information about his comings and goings. She always stood vigil for him on the nights that Dobby would come to her, ears drooped, hands wringing endlessly; neither of them were able to sleep until they saw him at the edge of the grounds or until Dobby could sense his return. And although the spy always managed to make his way to the entrance without the aid of Fawkes or Hagrid, he did so briskly, in agitation. Also, the next day he was guaranteed to be terribly grouchy.

It hardly helped, but the elf always left behind a hat in his rooms, or so she assumed—Hermione noticed a collection gathering in the corner of his desk, shoved beneath a rare moonstone the size of her fist. Odd that the potions master didn't simply banish them… yet kept them.

It was things like this that made her realize that he was a man she was far from figuring out... if it were even possible.

Harry didn't need to know and wouldn't listen to her that she didn't think he was the man he portrayed himself to be. And even if she was coming to realize he was a rather odd creature, such a notion would be lost on the Boy-Who-Lived. Perhaps it was lost on her as well, considering she was probably not in her right mind.

But once you spent time around him, the oddities were rather obvious: he used far more sugar in his tea than was socially acceptable; he never left a plate presented to him unfinished, except on the rare circumstance that he did not appear at dinner at all; he seemed bothered by the length of his hair, yet never cut it. He was silent more than he spoke. When in the presence of the other professors, he seemed to be... respected, but not well liked. He did not trust the headmaster, or at least outwardly he did not, although he did respect him and seemed closer to him than any others, even Professor McGonagall. In fact, she did not doubt that he did not trust anyone and would rather be alone than bother with the world's foolishness.

So why was he, then? Why did he bother?

It was a mystery to her. Maybe he wasn't antisocial, after all, but merely painfully shy. Or, she supposed being surrounded by people simply put him in a disenchanted mood and being vile was the only way he could handle it. Either way, she made certain to steer clear of him as much as possible when others were around, knowing full well what it was like to be the subject of his projected frustrations. If she let him be for an adequate time frame, he would eventually "warm" to her again, or at the very least be tolerable of her presence to the extent that he wasn't sniffing dispassionately every time she so much as shifted in her seat.

Still, despite his typically disagreeable nature, she found, when he didn't really think she was capable of paying attention (the tender moments during their training sessions, proceeding and succeeding their brewing sessions, during Occlumency), his roughness was... softened? Muffled? Granted, perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her, but ever since she'd managed to fully exclude him from her thoughts, he'd seemed to relax around her—as much as someone like him could relax, that was. And even if he did not speak to her, his silence wasn't violent... but gentle. When he did choose to communicate with language, it was firm, but not scathing. _Most_ of the time.

Then again, perhaps it was _she_ who had changed. She'd never spent much time around him to begin with, especially not outside of the classroom where he was, from what she could see, the strictest. Beyond their training, they _had_ shared several meals (both alone and in the company of the headamaster and the nurse), and rather than suffer in silence as they had weeks before, he'd indulged her at the proper time with conversation about her lessons, their plans for training in the upcoming term, and recommendations for "more thought-provoking reading than the drivel which she had plucked from the eye-level shelf". Hermione had never met anyone who would insult her taste in books as being too mainstream, but Severus Snape was not just anyone.

No, no, he was hardly normal... that was clear. But neither was he the man she had thought him to be when she was young. Regardless, she would not take his company for granted, considering how much she had already learned from him. But she was not jumping at the handle to ask him about his past or his reasons for getting involved in things that obviously made him uncomfortable.

To her surprise, between lessons and therapy, the summer flew by. Harry wrote less frequently—obviously occupied with the Weasley home. Her parents were on holiday, but they wrote once a week, at the least. She received no more letters from the ministry, or any other acquaintances, save a few from those of her house desperate for help on their assignments. The headmaster had grown busy with preparation for the upcoming school year and she rarely saw him save at meals.

In late July, a few of the professors began to return from their holidays. None were surprised to run into Hermione—they expressed jealousy that Pomfrey had snatched her up and fawned over her mastery and passion of magic. She felt guilty for their envy of the nurse, and their praise, although she knew they meant well. These feelings led her to avoid them as much as possible, simply because thinking about the next school year and how much she was going to disappoint them made her nauseous. As a consequence, she often took to having meals anywhere but the commonplaces...

And hence, her current predicament.

"…will you be joining me in the Great Hall for lunch, my dear?"

Hermione smiled, breaking out of her reveries as she flipped through the weekly Mediwitch journal, "Oh, no, I had an enormous breakfast… I should be fine for a few hours yet."

If she followed Poppy, her lunch hour would surely be spent awkwardly being crooned over by Sinistra and Burbage both. She did _not_ want that experience again for the rest of her life.

 _Strange... you've been a teacher's pet your entire life. You'd think this would be a gift sent from Merlin himself._

 _You'd think... but that was Hermione Granger before Dolores Umbridge earned the title of 'teacher' and stained her expectations forevermore._

 _Good point._

Although she'd managed a pleasant enough tone in her answer, Poppy's eyes narrowed over her, uncertain. She was as worried about Hermione's appetite as the potions master, if not more. Strangely enough, this wasn't the only thing they seemed to agree on as late… Snape frequented the hospital wing more than he ever had in the past (which still was not quite so often), and she knew it was uncommon because the nurse mentioned it as much as she could manage. Although she seemed to want to be annoyed, Hermione could tell she was pleased the potions master called upon her, even if it was to bark at her about this or that.

"Are you sure, my dear?"

At her pecking, Hermione internally rolled her eyes. She knew they only meant well, but they underestimated how little she ate typically, anyhow—if it weren't for Ron and Harry, she would never make it to meal times… and heavens' forbid she ate anything during exam times.

"Mhm... I have a question for Professor Snape, besides," she answered the nurse absently, as she packed the texts the witch had lent her to look over for their next lesson into her shoulder bag. As she did so, she did her best to ignore the twin pangs of sadness and panic at the thought that she and her friends would soon be reunited, "No doubt he'll steer me to the Great Hall soon enough."

"Indeed," the nurse noted, mimicking the somber, drawled tone of the potions master.

The young witch tried to hide the itch at the back of her neck that signaled her discomfort. For the past week, she'd been avoiding a gathering of dread in her gut, one she dared not name. It didn't need a name, as she had plenty of reasons to feel it. What worried her was that she had no clue why it now, all of a sudden, decided to plague her.

After a time, the mediwitch hummed as if satisfied that her observations were incorrect. Hermione noted the woman's wry smile, which suggested that she was merely allowing her the free will to deal with whatever malignity she was suffering. It was not what she would expect of the nurse, who was known to be overbearing and strict, but they had a different relationship now that she was her apprentice rather than merely a patient. The witch, despite her worry, dismissed her with a smile and reminded her to return for her next lesson with the necessary textbooks (as if the young witch didn't carry as many as she could in her bag).

Free, Hermione headed off with a slow gait, contemplating as she traipsed down the surprisingly mild-mannered stairs of the second floor. Since the influx of fellow teachers back into Hogwarts, Snape refrained from taking his lunch in the Great Hall—he typically took it in his office (perhaps avoiding the gabbing and pecking of Sinistra and Burbage).

As she walked, she braced herself. After all, as she had said to the nurse, it was her intent to interrupt his lunch… then again, why she immediately sought his confidence, she did not think to question. It was preposterous to analyze, but she did know that she was in desperate need of some reassurance, of a plan of action, of… well.

It seemed she'd been without Harry and Ron for far too long. She was growing bored, restless.

The dungeons seemed to appear in front of her, as if the staircases were leading her to them consciously. Not only that, but the young Gryffindor had managed to avoid anyone on her journey, even Peeves, and was eagerly approaching the office door of the Hogwarts Potions Master, only to find the heavy, stained door wide open.

A flutter of her stomach made her falter: he never left his door open.

 _Was he entertaining one of the professors? The headmaster?_

Her mood soured, imagining Sinistra peering through her heavily-lidded eyes at the potions master over cups of tea as they poured over star charts, talking through plump lips with white, perfect teeth. Her nerve seemed lost and she found herself turning to leave… but then she realized that there were no voices coming from within, which meant the room was empty, or the conversation was being warded.

 _Were they discussing something important?_

 _Something secret?_

 _You're being ridiculous!_

 _Am not!_

Curiosity, her most damnable trait, bid her to draw closer, hugging her bag close so the sound of it rubbing against her legs did not rustle.

As she tiptoed along the dungeon corridor, she half-expected to find Snape sipping tea and gossiping with Professor McGonagall herself, or glaring down his nose at Trelawney—or, worse, that he would melt out of the shadows themselves to scorn her for letting her guard down. But all such fantastic notions and even her infallible logic were dashed when she found the entirety of his office painfully… empty.

 _Empty?_

Panic gripped her as her eyes drew along the bare, abandoned floor, questions darting out from her heart in quick streams—Had he slipped out without Dobby noticing the night before? Was he injured… could he possibly be lying dead in a ditch thousands of miles away? Why hadn't the headmaster warned—

 _You aren't exactly "need to know" in these situations, are you, Granger? Honestly, w_ _hy would anyone think you even_ cared? _Unless, of course,_ _you are merely being selfish. After all, without him, well… you would not survive, would you? Surely you should be informed should your only hope to retrieve your magic be injured or die._

 _I'm not that self-absorbed... I care..._

 _Do you? What have you done for him except watch from your ivory tower, chewing your lip like a helpless waif?_

She closed her mind to her thoughts and ran forward, rushing through the threshold so quickly that her hair whipped around her shoulders as she skidded into the office, the weight of her bag flying forward. Her steps rebounded off of the empty walls, echoing eerily and the books jabbed her sharply as the bag swung back into her body and settled as she stood frozen in the center of the office, so much bigger than she remembered it being.

His office, empty, was a grim sight. The shelves which had been so covered by jars of balms and pickled organisms were empty, save a layer of grime and dust. The desk was bereft of parchment and quill—gone was the moonstone and the pile of hats beneath them. The trinkets she'd never really noticed were all absent, too, and the scent that had so pervaded the professor's personal space was replaced with... orange-peels and sulfur?

It was as if it were an entirely different room, as if she'd stumbled upon an unknown part of the castle, hidden away and forgotten for centuries. Then again, she'd never seen it so bare, so empty, so—

 _Lonely_.

Her fingers found her mouth and she twisted her lip nervously between her thumb and index, eyes darting along the water-stained walls and cobbled floors. The stress she felt at the mere thought that he was injured seemed suffocating and she found her breath hitching as she turned around, as if doing so might make the room right again. Instinctively, she closed her eyes, overwhelmed with the emptiness of the office, and drew a jagged breath, arms wrapping around herself as tightly as she could manage. When its weight seemed to strained, she allowed the bag fell from her arms...

Yet its sound never echoed.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing in m-here, Granger?"

Her eyes darted open and found his: endless, obsidian black.

"For Merlin's sake..." he said as he lifted his wand, levitating the bag, whose seam had ripped and sent books spilling. They all were suspended by his magic, and he swiftly began to mutter an incantation, which she knew would render them weightless for a time.

It was a spell she would have cast on her books regularly, had she the magic.

The scent of him seemed to wash over her as he spoke the spell, his voice tickling her skin as gently as a feather, and yet reaching deep into her soul, uplifting it from the dread-filled pool in which she had submerged as he cast the books to weightlessness. When he was finished, they sailed back into their repaired bag, which he dropped gently to her feet.

"Thank you," she heard herself say in a murmur. She had no doubt the spells would last for at least the rest of the summer.

"Hm," he replied, face taut.

She found herself more than relieved to see him standing stiffly in the doorway, chin lifted ever so slightly in that pompous way of his. Gone were his robes—given the state of his hair, shoved impatiently behind his ears so that his jagged cheekbones were nearly as prominent as his nose, he had not been idly grading papers, but doing something which required free movement, if indicated by his rolled up sleeves and lack of robes.

Had he been moving all of his stuff? Was he rearranging? Redecorating?

And what was he, now that his office was… gone? Did he have a new one? One closer to Dumbledore, perhaps?

Oh, to hell with it, he's _alive._ The realization led relief to flood her bones, turning them soft, driving away the sense of grief that had been rotting in her belly and pulling them to the ground. She felt her cheeks flush suddenly, embarrassed to realize exactly how much she did, indeed, care for him.

If he'd died, now, before she'd ever really had a chance to fulfill her promise to him... well, what did that say of her character?

"What's happened?" She blurted, curiosity filling her veins and sharpening her tone as she tried to drive away any thoughts of her attachments to him, "Have you been sacked?"

"Your confidence in me is as sound as ever," the potions master sneered towards her, although the bite was not as crippling as it once had been.

"That's not what I—"

His eyes narrowed and something in his face shifted, as if he was pained, "Save your breath, girl. Obviously, you did not trek all the way to the heart of the dungeons for the pleasure of my company. What is it that is so urgent that you've let your emotions get away from you that you have gone snooping against better judgement?"

She paused, searching her brain, unable to remember in the face of trying to figure out what was going on with his office. And why was he changing the subject?

Even though she did not answer him promptly, he did not bark at her, but merely frowned in her direction, crossing his arms as he did so. The sleeves of his frock coat were rolled up as far as the wool could muster, which wasn't even half his forearm. The tongue of the Dark Mark was barely visibly, but enough that she could see it flicker as it furled and unfurled over his luminously pale skin. She tried very hard not to watch it as her mind flicked through the possibilities as they presented themselves. Instead she moved her gaze from him, around the walls of the ovular room which she had only just begun to be comfortable in, and tried to picture anyone else being here, but him.

To picture a Hogwarts without him made no sense—like a Hogwarts without Hagrid, without Dumbledore. She'd endured enough of the giant's and the headmaster's absences to know how missed the potions master would be… by her, at the very least. Dread filled her to imagine a castle as equally bereft of his potions master as its groundskeeper…

 _Was_ he leaving? Was Dumbledore sending him into the belly of the beast? Was he going on assignment with the Death Eaters, like Hagrid had with the giants?

 _No… no, Dumbledore needs him close. What need would he have for a spy who could not feed information directly to him?_

Her brain buzzed along that path, slowly but assuredly putting the pieces of the puzzle together. There was no Hogwarts without him—especially not during the war—so why on heavens would he be moving his office? Was this something to do with Dumbledore's mysterious illness? Was it something to do with Harry? With her?

No... at least not directly.

Her eyes scanned the room. There was no damage to the room to be repaired, and deep-cleaning did not require the re-location of furniture... which meant someone else was taking it over. And if he had not been sacked, then he'd been—

Transferred… promoted? But there was only one open position and it was...

 _Defense._

"Oh," she blurted, her eyes going wide as saucers, "Oh!"

The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor made a slight roll of his eyes at her expressions. She watched him carefully, now that she'd finally put it all together. His face did not reveal a sliver of emotion, but his eyes held hers for a moment longer than she thought necessary, before he drew them down, towards the floor.

"Well," she began, feeling a bit silly standing in such an empty room with him hovering in the doorway. She was the only object in it and that meant that she was the very center of his attention, which meant he would be able to analyze every flaw, "Congratulations, sir."

"Indeed," he answered bitterly, brows furrowing in suspicion.

Remembering Umbridge's revelation that he desired the Defense position, she felt slightly befuddled by his sourness. If he wanted this, why did he look so… angry about it? Of course, he could just be angry at her. Or angry at nothing. Both were equally likely.

Or maybe it was because the position was cursed.

 _Rumored to be cursed,_ she corrected.

 _Cursed,_ another part of her insisted.

Scientifically, it was highly likely that it was.

"What are you sticking your nose into, now, Granger?"

She feigned innocent distraction and dreamily answered, "Sir?"

His eyes drew over her even more critically than before and she felt her cheeks heat up as he did so, knowing he was resisting trying to legilimize her. Something in his angular features grew slack and she watched the mirror fall over his eyes, the darkness unperturbed. It was a wall, that she knew—he'd taught her to recognize one in others, so she could detect who knew Occlumency and who didn't. Her own quivered at her command, lifting from the dark water of the Divide to shield her thoughts from intrusion. Any accomplished legilimens would easily unearth them, but… in the time it took to shatter them, she would have employed a different defense.

Should have, at least.

"Now that you've solved the afternoon's mystery of the day," the potions master said dryly, _"and_ wasted my time and patience in the process, there is no reason for you to loiter in these rooms any longer, is there?"

She did not say anything, but found her feet planted and the dread returning… would _anything_ be the same the next year?

Snape wasn't going to teach potions.

Dumbledore was likely dying.

Her magic was just out of reach…

And the Dark Lord had risen.

She likely wouldn't live to see him fall...

And neither would the man in front of her.

He paused, looked her once over as the emotions gathered in her throat, "Are you unwell?"

"I…" she breathed in suddenly, deeply, trying to reel it all back in, "Was fine, sir."

"Was?"

"Erm," she struggled, before wiping her face clean of invisible tears, "I admit, I was thinking—"

"Imagine that."

She ignored him, "I was thinking about the upcoming term and I wanted to inquire about—"

His face darkened, "Do you really think you're ready to wield magic, Miss Granger?"

She froze... that hadn't been what she was going to say.

But, then again, what would she have said?

"No," she answered, perhaps more defensively than she had intended, knowing this conversation would be better than the one she had intended, or subconsciously intended, to have, "But if I'm ever to master magic again—"

"You can barely _muster_ magic," he answered.

She tried to quell the dread at realizing that it was true, "You're right. I only intended to ask you how long you thought it would take for me to… to fully recover it's abilities, considering—"

"You seemed confident enough that you would recover by the end of the summer," the potions master said, "What has changed?"

Sourly, she crossed her arms and glared at the wall beside him, angry at herself that her eyes suddenly began to burn with tears.

"I just—the school year is approaching rather rapidly—"

"Do you lack confidence in your ability to hide your condition?"

"No, I merely…" she searched for the right way to explain it, "I merely didn't want to have to."

"I am equally disappointed, I admit, but _you_ were the one to choose this path, Miss Granger," the potions master reminded her, "At the advice of the headmaster—"

"And yourself... sir."

He made no comment, only glared at her for interrupting him, "Your condition was to remain secret, to protect you, to protect all that you loved, all whom you trusted, and yes, to protect your slimy potions' professor, too. If you do not think yourself capable of making such a sacrifice, then perhaps it might be best to return home to your parents to live out your days in peace, so that those of us who are at your mercy are not endangered by your impetuous indecisiveness."

She felt her distaste for him wane and then grow throughout his speech, and wondered if he had intended to confuse her emotionally—perhaps that was a strategy to keep him at a social advantage?

Regardless, this conversation was... necessary?

Helpful?

She was determined to stick with this, "If I were to give up now, all these weeks of trying would be for nothing."

"Perhaps. As I have said before, your recovery depends entirely on what magic is worth to you, Miss Granger."

"I beg your pardon?"

His tone was as sharp as his narrowed eyes, " _What_ is magic worth to you? Is it worth your life? Another's happiness? Your sanity?"

She fell silent, surprised by his candor—it was a different version than the one he typically wielded. One that struck her far deeper and harsher than she could have imagined. She felt a sense of déjà vu at the intimacy of such conversation, as she had known he'd asked her a similar question that first day in the hospital wing, when she'd decided to accept his help…

It was also the moment when she had decided to ignore his advice and threats and try to heal him.

"If you do not take the time to recover properly, then you risk harming yourself or, Circe forbid, another," he continued his speech, and it was very clearly implied that he was such a person that he described, "It would not be... dishonorable to accept that recovery is not a road that you are willing to walk."

She considered his veiled advice, knowing he was being sincere—and wondered if he'd been given the same, or if those who knew him simply swept his own pains beneath the rug. Still, she knew it was not the right thing to do, to just walk away, even though she desperately missed her parents, and sometimes wished she was just a normal girl again.

Did she really want to leave?

Was that why she was depressed?

 _No._

"I can't just give up."

 _Not on myself… and not on you._

"No, because you are a stupid, righteous little Gryffindor," he told her, shaking his head ever so slightly, dismissing her clenched fists and raised chin as the acts of a child throwing a fit. He dropped his face forward, hiding his expression from her, although she thought she detected a slight smirk—or perhaps a sneer—at the edge of his thin lips, "As you are expected to be."

She scoffed, "What in Merlin's name is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what you think it means, Granger," he said stiffly, dark eyes piercing his sharply, "You will have your wand when you have earned it, as we previously agreed. Do _not_ ask me again."

She nodded, reluctantly.

"As for your poor manners, those will be addressed this evening with an impromptu training sessions—sans talismans. I feel a demonstration in humility is in order—for the sake of safety, of course."

She internally groaned—"sans talismans" was code for conditioning, which meant running and dodging spells until she was a puddle of sweat and a pounding headache. In other words, it was PE all over again. She'd thought she had escaped that horror when she came to Hogwarts—boy, was she wrong. It didn't help that the potioneer made the burly football coach of her younger years seem docile in comparison.

But it would feel nice to get lost in the sparring room... to forget.

As he stared her down, daring her to challenge his judgement, he stepped backwards, offering his arm for her to evacuate the room.

Her feet refused to move. The idea of going off into the castle, alone, made her queasy. She hesitated, struggling to find a way to ask him, without seeming desperate. In her flustered state, she stumbled over her words, "A-Actually, sir, I had a few more questions…"

Her request hung in the air as his eyes glared around the empty room, then back to her. When she did not drop her gaze, as if to suggest that she would pester him that evening if need be, he sighed ever so slightly. Without giving any indication of his decision, he then snapped his fingers while turning slightly to speak to the air, "Dobby?"

The elf appeared, but before Snape could open his mouth to address him further, Dobby had bowed deeply and announced, "Lunch for Master and Miss will be served promptly!"

 _Pop!_

The professor glared at the air, as if he wasn't sure if he should berate the elf later or call him back to do it now, then blinked, as if he'd suddenly realized something and was mildly horrified.

Hermione cleared her throat as he contemplated the ground with a curled lip, hurriedly grasping at the opportunity she'd been giving with a silent "thank you" to Dobby.

"As I was saying, sir," she sat down at the table that Dobby had conjured in the center of the empty office, which then began to bloom with cutlery and plates, goblets. Food followed soon after: finger sandwiches, trays of raw vegetables and fruit, slices of orange and chocolate wedge cakes that she so fancied, "I also had a few questions about obtaining lesson plans from my professors to help prepare…"

The potions master seemed torn for a moment on whether he wanted to sit before her or not. Eventually, he sat down, and began to eat, quietly. He spoke very little, answering her questions as swiftly and with as few words as possible.

When her questions were answered and all the food was cleared away, they sat in silence at the table, the room empty around them. She stared at the buttons at his throat... his hair had dried and curled around the collar ever so slightly. Not naturally, of course, but simply following the surface of his collarbone. He seemed to be fixated on the goblet he held loosely in both of his hands, perhaps wishing she would disappear.

"Will you miss it?"

He hadn't seemed to be aware of her presence, and yet he seamlessly considered her question with a mild frown, "It is of little consequence."

She didn't feel comfortable enough to admit that she would miss him being the potions master. She couldn't envision anyone else, after all. Already, she longed for the endless expanse of shelves, covered by stoppered vials in all shapes, sizes, and opulence to return. It didn't matter who replaced him; already, the castle was adjusting to the change, and the aura that had so permeated this room was draining… to where, she did not know. His new office, perhaps?

The stone beneath her feet seemed so flat and dull, and she knew it was cold even though she couldn't feel it through the soles of her shoes. Suddenly, the emotions she'd only barely been holding at bay began to flood to the foreground, suffocating all other train of thought.

"Everything is so different already," she noted, voice strained slightly, eyes fixated on the fingers which entwined agitatedly in her lap, "It's as if the whole world has turned upside down."

"Such is the way of life," he said nonchalantly. She supposed it was a kinder way of answering _life is not fair._

When she lifted her gaze, she was surprised to find him looking at her. His gaze wasn't soft… his features could never manage true gentleness, being so sharp, but there was a slackness to his jaw, a loosening of his mouth, a flexibility to his brows that she had never seen before. It wasn't exactly pity—perhaps empathy?

He seemed fascinated by his goblet again, and spoke as if far away, "The world might have turned upside down, but it is still spinning, Granger. Or it might be, although I would not know considering you've monopolized a good chunk of my time."

It was the most optimistic thing she'd ever heard him say, and yet he still managed to be snarky.

 _It's sort of... endearing._

"Now," he said, lifting the goblet to his lips briskly, "If you are content, I have work to do."

She wondered about asking him if he would require assistance, but thought better of it. He would likely turn sour against her if she did so.

"Of course, sir," she said, hurriedly, trying to make up for the time she'd contemplated. She found herself standing up so abruptly that she hit her knee against the table. She winced and hurriedly stepped backwards, refusing to look at him and see his sneering response, "Thank you... you've been very helpful."

He did not reply, merely stood silently, stoically. His face seemed tighter, as if trying to see through her skin.

 _Trying to read your mind._

"Thank you," she repeated, eyes darting to the door, quite uncertain why her skin was suddenly flushed and hot, why she was being clumsy and stuffy-headed. She'd never truly worried about him being in her head before, so why now?

He might have replied to her departing words, but she'd rushed out the door before he could, leaving her bag behind.


	21. The Eye of the Storm

The Devil's Tears  
Chapter Twenty  
The Eye of the Storm

"Have you given thought to our most pressing predicament, Severus?"

The potions savant ignored the headmaster, choosing instead to glare down at the silver plate in front of him. Why Albus bothered with addressing him about such things in the presence of others, he did not know. Gladly, they were the only two in the world who knew that the man—Severus' only real ally—would be dead by the end of the year, either by the hand of Severus' godson or his own. Yet, Albus somehow did not seem fazed by the fact, and neither did he seem to think it was as delicate of a matter as it was.

A twisted, thin mouth scowled down away from the man, hating the feeling of those twinkling blue eyes fixed upon his skin. Albus was the one who had gotten them in this 'predicament', so why was it Severus that was making the decisions? The headmaster knew he could order him to do as he wished, but instead he asked for his blessing—he wanted him to want to kill him.

Perhaps attempting to annoy him to death was a viable strategy? Gods knew he already detested the man enough, nearly as much as he respected him, simply for putting himself in this situation.

"Severus?"

" _What_?"

"Have you given the task much thought, dear boy?"

He glared in the direction of the nosy witches who peered over their goblets at them. A few of them had already overindulged themselves on elfin spirits and gazed at him with expressions that, under the bold influence of alcohol, revealed every hateful and mistrusting emotion they felt for him. A few rolled their eyes when his dark eyes met theirs, prompting them to turn away. They'd written him off years ago as unfixable, thus, uninteresting in their eyes.

Although concerned of their scrutiny (as he ever was as a spy), it was not their attention that troubled him. No, he had dealt with the staff long enough to know whose attention would cause him trouble, but tonight there was a guest among the staff…

It was the first year that there was a student in attendance of the unofficial celebration held every 31st of August. Miss Granger, naturally, seemed to be enjoying that fact as she sipped from elderberry wine and discussed some mundane Muggle topic with Charity in earnest. He felt a twinge of pride in the fact that she hadn't even glanced towards him in the half-hour since he had arrived, respecting his wishes that their arrangement remain relatively secret.

 _Unlike some other witches…_

Still, he felt a part of him wane, wondering—

 _Wondering what, Severus?_

 _Exactly._

He narrowed his eyes away from the young Gryffindor, feeling the glare of another lioness boring into skin. Of course, as the headmaster waited patiently for his answer, Minerva was eyeing him like a hawk from two seats across from him.

She, he would worry about… bloody troublesome witch.

The past week had been nothing but awkward between them. Ever since she'd returned from her extremely long vacation, she'd been fixated on him. Why? He had no clue, at least not until Albus expressed that Poppy seemed to have shared some concern for Albus' health.

Of course, Minerva did not believe Albus' arm was "a mere mishap" or that it had been "dealt with accordingly", and she certainly didn't believe the headmaster when he claimed that Miss Granger had remained for the entire holiday to study healing. She knew there was something the matter with both of them, although Albus was succeeding in keeping her mostly in the dark. She suspected Severus knew more than he led on, hence her current general disapproval of him.

In the past, he might have shared some minute details with her. But this was not the matter of the Sorcerer's Stone, nor of the Chamber of Secrets. The dark lord was alive, breathing, fully capable of ripping his mind to shreds. He could not risk sharing such a secret with her.

Thankfully, thus far, Severus himself had been able to avoid her by being particularly nasty to the matronly witch. But, as her eyes narrowed over him pointedly, he shot her a sneer over the edge of his goblet, urging her to let the sleeping snake lie (as if that ever worked where it concerned a Gryffindor). Knowing he would be tempted to involve her in Miss Granger's predicament, they had not spoken to one another since he'd stormed out of her office, and he was content to allow her to think that he was still holding a grudge against her.

Naturally, this was for the best. If there was anyone he could confide in about the strange magic between he and Miss Granger, it was Minerva… but it was best not to be tempted. He had no idea how she would react to such a thing, nor did he want to know. No matter what she thought of it, it wouldn't change the fact that the entire situation was detestable. Not only that, but he was fairly certain she would be grossly excited about such a prospect, which was the exact opposite reaction she would have if she were a normal human being.

If anything, she was an odd duck, just like her favorite protégé. And as much as he would like to teach her Occlumency, he would not do so unless it was asked of him by the headmaster. He didn't like poking around in other people's heads, especially not those whom he deeply respected, like Minerva.

Given their heated conversation about his reasoning for practically bullying the Muggleborn, he could see where her suspicions would be founded. He had no reason to oblige the headmaster's requests to offer her extra help, considering it would not only put himself in danger but the girl, so Minerva was right to be concerned—but that didn't mean she had to be so obvious about it.

 _Bloody Gryffindors._

"My boy?" the headmaster added after it was clear that Severus would not answer him for the second—or was it third?—time.

"Which predicament are you referencing, Albus? We have several on any given day."

The wizard ignored his question, "I had hoped you would come to a decision about the grim task dealing with a certain Slytherin, considering the student in question will be arriving tomorrow and no doubt will have some sort of plan in place?"

"I gave you my decision on the matter," he replied tersely, attempting to enjoy the rich juices of the steak, "And considering the student in question, I doubt he will be as eager as you assume he will be to carry out the task you speak of."

 _What more would you like me to say, Albus? I will do what I must, but I refuse to kill you. I would much rather find a way to heal you—_

 _Impossible, and you know it. Why waste your breath?_

 _I could prolong his death—_

 _Which would leave him to suffer indubitably or succumb to great madness. Death would be the most merciful of all other outcomes._

 _I will not kill him._

 _Then convince Draco to do the deed!_

As he stewed in his thoughts, Rolanda sent them a look out of the corner of her eye. Charity and Aurora's followed after Rolanda's. Then the amber eyes of Miss Granger trickled towards him, following after Charity's. They flickered along his face, then back down towards her lap, cheeks turning slightly pink.

Severus felt his jaw tighten: why were they all always so nosy? The girl in particular.

 _Why do you expect more out of her than the others?_

"I see," Albus muttered towards him, "So the boy has reservations, then?"

"Which boy?" Minerva inquired.

Albus sent her a look over his half-moon glasses.

Severus shot the headmaster a venomous look and hissed—the man was pestering him within an inch of his life. He threw down his knife and stood. No one urged him to calm himself or to return… they were likely more comfortable eating without him, anyhow.

 _They all hate you, you know._

 _Yes, well—the feeling is generally mutual._

Minerva quipped something towards him under her breath. He ignored her, naturally.

Severus was nearly to the door of the Entrance Hall when he heard someone's voice raise above the rest, "Severus, where are you going?"

It was Poppy, of course. The blasted witch thought they were _close_ now. It was her fault things were tense between he and Minerva.

He ignored her and strode of out the hall. That was another predicament… she'd yet to agree to his own proposal, no matter how insistent he was that it was not necessary that she knew exactly what he spoke of. Severus couldn't blame her; in the same position, he would ask the same.

Pitifully, he wished that it had been Minerva who had learned of Miss Granger's illness and not Poppy. Of all the people to share the burden of such knowledge, the nurse would be his last choice of confidante with such a delicate, personal matter… well, perhaps last after the Chosen Brat.

"Irksome witch," he muttered.

If all went well, he would not need to tell her about anything. If the current thorn in his side, Miss Granger, could recover fully on her own, then there would be no need to humiliate himself by telling Poppy. Only if it was absolutely necessary would he perform the ceremony… only then would he reveal the barest of details to the nurse.

Given that Miss Granger would even accept such a ceremony.

"Bugger," he muttered, rubbing his face with both hands tiredly.

Speaking of Miss Granger, her behavior at dinner was commendable. There were notes of improvement on the horizon.

She was quiet during their lessons, but she didn't seem unhappy, or sickly. Contemplative was the word he would use to describe her. But she hardly met his gaze anymore, especially during dueling, which likely meant she was hiding something from him…

 _At least you know she's been listening to your lessons._

Yes, but what was she hiding?

 _Something to do with Potter… she had never been very secretive about anything else._

He should be glad, relieved, that she was feeling better, rather than worse, but a part of him couldn't help but be wary of what was to come. Was improvement a sign of a worse time to come?

He stopped as he opened the door to his office, fingering the amulet in his pocket absently.

Yes, recently, she'd begun to show signs of being her old self again. She frequented the library. That irritating habit of hers of avoiding her professors or feeling awkward in their company had diminished significantly even in just the past few days. Even her posture was different… it was almost as if she felt she had purpose again. Direction.

 _Good. It's about time she decided to move forward! Perhaps now, we will see improvement._

 _Or perhaps this is merely the calm before the storm…_

In the years since her death he'd forgotten the ups and downs his mother had endured because of this illness. While he believed that Miss Granger had made gains in the months since her illness, she had not nearly as much as she would need to in order to protect herself (and others) from true harm. With the students returning, she would be at greater risk, no matter her demeanor, no matter what she was hiding from him.

And he could only imagine what havoc Draco—or the dark lord, heavens forbid—would wreak upon her if they knew…

 _Neither must not know._

 _And they won't, unless you tell them, or she does—and that's not likely._

 _But Draco will be watching her closely… it is very likely the dark lord has asked it of him. Will she withstand such scrutiny, or crumble?_

"Fucking hell," he said as he sat heavily into his chair, wincing as his back pinched under his shirt.

They would have to be extremely careful in the coming months. Immediately, he knew he should explain as such to her as soon as possible, likely that very moment, but such thoughts were interrupted. A burning sensation erupted in his arm and caused him to hiss and reach for it.

" _What_ now?" he muttered wearily when it subsided, his pain fading into the dull and constant ache of his back and two sets of weary limbs.

He removed the amulet from his pocket, knowing it would not be safe where he was going, and then swept out into the corridor, emptying his mind of all thought and emotion.

·

At the same moment, having departed shortly after the potions master, Hermione stood in the Room of Requirement, staring down at the ebony and ivory keys of the piano. Her fingers moved, nimbly attempting the song.

There was something soothing about learning the notes, but also something magical about the fact that as she learned more and more of the song, she recognized the changes, the subtle shifts that were the ebb and flow of her emotions. Not only was she magic, she was soul, and body, and mind—

And every day, she was a different person, but also relatively the same.

It was far more intimate than visualizing her magic: far more complex… as if her ears could hear more than her eyes could see. When she played, it was as if she could touch her magic, feel it quell and surge inside of her. Every chord she captured brought her closer to her magic than practicing with potions ever could.

And yet, she still felt so very, very far away.

After a time, she ceased playing and stood, paced around the piano. As she drifted, the instrument began to disappear. Gradually, the room began to change around her, providing her with a comfortable chair and plush rug. She did not sit in it, but walked over to the writing desk, where a book was open: it was her Charms text, outlining all of the spells she would be required to learn this semester.

Unfortunately, the talismans could only provide her specific spells; Professor Dumbledore was working on creating the ones she would need, but as Professor Snape pointed out, it would be foolish to carry that many talismans at once.

 _And how are we going to hurdle this obstacle, Granger?_

 _I have no idea. Professor Snape probably has some sort of plan._

 _Probably… if and when he will decide to share it with me is a mystery, as usual._

She frowned.

Would he share his plans for the year with her, or was she to stumble along, expected to know what was expected of her?

Her skin turned cold at the thought, knowing she would likely crumble under Snape's immense expectations. In response, she headed closer to the fire which appeared in the wall. The flames danced and cracked and she watched them, wondering…

Would it be wrong to ask Professor Snape to provide her with that amulet… just in case?

 _Highly inappropriate._

 _I know, but—_

 _Don't, Hermione! Just do better, and you won't have a need of it. You can pretend, can't you? Just lay low…_

 _That's hardly as easy as it sounds!_

 _Then make it easy._

She breathed in sharply, closing her eyes. She needed to remain calm and levelheaded, or she would spiral downward again, and that would lead to ruin. If she constantly tried to maintain positivity, then she wouldn't succumb to the pit of despair that was calling to her like a siren, the one that reminded her that she was in way over her head, just like she had been in that dream when she was drowning in the Black Lake… the one where the darkness inside of her could thrive and _—_

A soft popping noise led her to open her eyes.

"Dobby," she greeted softly, attempting to smile.

"Miss Hermone," Dobby bounced on the balls of his feet, wringing his hands. His large ears drooped beneath the weight of his hats and—by the look on his face—bad news.

"He's been summoned?"

"Yes, Miss."

She frowned, feeling slightly numb at the news. Of course, she was worried, but she had to stay positive.

 _He will return. He always does…_

 _But will he return whole?_

Her heart sunk.

"Dobby will keep watch tonight, Miss," the elf decreed. Suddenly, chocolate appeared for her, "Miss Hermione must get a good night's rest for tomorrow! School begins."

"I'll wait with you, Dobby."

"Miss—"

"Dobby, I'm fine… I wouldn't be able to sleep if I tried," she insisted, before she stood up, "Let's go to the tower, hm?"

"Yes, Miss Hermione."

They traveled in solemn silence—she was growing accustomed to silent interactions with people. Most of her time was spent with Snape, believe it or not, and there wasn't much to talk about with him, especially lately. The conversation between them was never anything but tense; why, she didn't know, although she suspected that, on her end, it was because of her trying desperately to hide her underlying motives where it concerned his health. Of course, he knew, and was suspicious, but she maintained such a calm demeanor (a la Luna Lovegood) that he never pressed… at least not yet.

Theirs was a strange relationship. She knew that she trusted him with her life, but he did not trust her with his. She enjoyed his company and felt safe with him, but she could sense that he felt awkward and burdened by hers. Not that he didn't feel the same with everyone else… she understood that it was merely the way he was. A small part of her felt disappointed to not be the exception to his cardinal rule, but she pushed it away, knowing she was being exponentially foolish. There was no use mourning the loss of something like that—it wasn't as if she fancied him. He was her teacher!

But she did want to get to know him, to help him… and if she truly wanted to do that, then she needed to get closer to him. Of course, imagining him trusting her was mind-boggling. There was such a huge wall between them, one that she knew was not only of his construct, but of hers, too. But she could try, couldn't she?

It was still an unlikely feat to manage. For years, she'd agitated him as a member of the Golden Trio. Yes, she had defended him to others, but for someone like him, someone so ostracized and hated, that would not be enough. No, he needed someone truly devoted. Someone who would defend his life—which meant that she would have to be covert, as someone like him would never be anything but suspicious of a well-wisher.

It would be difficult for her… she was so brazenly Gryffindor, so open about her feelings and wants. But to protect him, she could manage a secret or two. Even from Harry— _especially_ from Harry.

As much as she wanted to build her own wall higher, fearing the rejection he would surely rain down upon her, she found that maintain it was becoming more and more difficult to do so. After re-absolving herself to find some way to help him, to cure him, she couldn't build barriers between them. Wasn't he already so isolated from the world?

She could only tear her wall down, brick by brick… and as she got closer to him, as she observed him more, the witch could only reaffirm her impressions of him at the beginning of summer: that he was noble, good, deserving of affection and companionship, a gray wizard rather than a dark one, who could be swayed to do good or evil, depending on its purpose and his intent.

 _Yes_ , he was certainly not perfect. In fact, he was deeply flawed: angry and bitter and cruel, but… he was also honest, and his intentions were honorable. Most of them, at least.

But it wasn't worried her own defenses she was currently worried about—no, she was worried about how she was ever going to penetrate the one which kept her out.

" _Leptis Magna,_ " she provided to the Fat Lady.

The portrait swung open, and she and Dobby were greeted by Crookshanks, who seemed to have been waiting for them. The bandy-legged cat gave Dobby a penetrating look, then approached them both. He twined around their legs, then bound off, up the stairwell, intent for that terrible tower with its transparent wall.

Dobby busied himself with summoning cakes for them all to share, lighting candles. He then tentatively tended to Crooks with a hairbrush, while she pulled out a book from her bag that her mother had sent her.

She read the passage where she had left off, eyes flicking intermittently towards the distant grounds below, seeking out the shadow that they both hoped would return to them.

·

Severus bent over, gathering his breath while clinging to his bruised side, stumbling towards the gates of Hogwarts with what he knew was likely a broken ankle.

 _It could be worse… such is the price of a late arrival._

Fawkes was waiting for him, perched upon one of the six winged hog statues that lined the entrance. As the dark wizard stiffly walked onward, biting back the pain of his foot, the phoenix trilled in greeting. He nodded to him and continued with a spidery pace. Not long after he'd passed just beyond the perch, an irritatingly concerned shrill called to his back, warning him to halt.

"Oh, _shove_ it, bird brain," he muttered backwards, waving the bird away, "I'm not dying. Save your tears for your damned fool of a master."

 _Not like they would work, unfortunately._

Fawkes' emerald eyes flared when he glanced back, but the bird was silent. As Severus trudged along, the phoenix's gaze was relentless behind him, burning holes into his skull.

"Bloody featherbag," he hissed to himself.

The bird must have taken flight shortly after because he swooped overhead, circling, then gliding low—the show-off. Old as he was, he was still agile, and flight was always swifter than travelling by foot. He headed speedily across the grounds, before disappearing around a spire, en route to the headmaster's tower. He was going to alert the white wizard to Severus' arrival, no doubt, as if Albus couldn't already sense it himself through the castle bonds.

"Bugger him," he muttered disdainfully.

He decided after five hours of a mind-numbing audience with Lord Voldemort and his newest and somehow more irritating and perverse followers, he wasn't in the mood for Albus' games—especially not after watching Draco nearly dissolve at the seams when tasked with the torture of a barely of age Muggle girl.

It was unlike him to delay, but he knew his report could wait until the morning, when he wasn't prone to revealing too much of the experience to Albus.

 _Just because I'm loyal doesn't mean I need to reveal everything… not where it concerns Draco. I owe the boy that much, at least—_

He frowned as he struggled to ascend the steps—he would be lucky if he could make it to his rooms… even luckier if he could make it to his bed. And he didn't want to talk about what had transpired—not yet.

 _What a mess._

Draco was in over his head, that was clear. Funnily enough, he reminded Severus of himself at that age: so willing to prove himself, yet so uncertain of _how_ he'd gotten to be where he was, _how_ he was going to live with himself, _how_ would he ever wash his hands clean. The Malfoy heir might be having different doubts, but they were doubts nonetheless. Everyone could see them, especially the dark lord…

There was a shuffling sound as he entered the Entrance Hall, prompting him to whip out his wand.

"No magic, please, Professor Snapes, sir!"

" _Merlin_ —Dobby!"

"Sir—"

"What are you doing here, elf? Don't you have surfaces to clean? Pests to remove?"

"Dobby is just keeping his watch, sir," the elf seemed oddly pleased with himself, prompting Severus to wish he could use legilimency on him to see exactly what he could be up to.

"What could you possibly be keeping watch over?"

"Dobby is watching The Knight, sir," Dobby answered, proudly.

"The Night?" Severus rolled his eyes, "Gods help us."

He pulled his cloak tighter—and thus, his frock coat—hugging the magically threaded wool as close to his body as he could. Granted, the pain was less, but anytime he'd endured the Cruciatus he would be prone to spasms.

"Is sirs requiring assistance?"

" _No_ ," he hissed, "Now get out of my way."

He expected the elf to shrink away in fear, but the damnable being merely stood higher.

"Sirs foot is broken," Dobby nodded determinedly, "Sirs should see the nurse."

"I will do no such—"

"Severus, have you lost your bleeding mind?"

He spun to face the witch in question and nearly howled in pain when he was forced to put too much of his weigh on his foot.

"What are you doing walking? Are you so stubborn that you've forgotten a setting spell?"

"No, I have not! Otherwise I wouldn't be able to walk, now would I?"

"You shouldn't be walking at all, you stubborn fool."

"I shouldn't, yet I am."

"Enough, Severus—you need to sit."

"I will do no such thing. You're overreacting, as usual, Pomfrey."

"And you're underestimating my abilities to restrain my most unwilling patients, as usual," the mediwitch said, crossing her arms, "Now, would you prefer I levitate you or—"

Severus made to shove past her, but he was struck with a spasm. He nearly fell to his knees as he lost control of his body, but the elf had sprung to action, wrapping him in the protection of his magic.

When the agitated motions of his body ceased, he couldn't even look at Pomfrey. Humiliated, his dark eyes fixated on the floor.

Eventually, however, he felt a hand on his arm. He instinctively flinched away, but the witch clutched his arm tighter, prompting him to quiver.

"If you don't take care of yourself, Severus, then you are putting your students at risk—Miss Granger, at risk—don't you see that?"

He pretended to ignore her and removed his arm from her grip. With her trailing closely behind, he hobbled towards the nearest marble bench, set between two suits of armor, and sat down, his leg stretched out in front of him.

Because he knew she would not rest, he allowed her to crouch down and peel back the black leg of his pants to reveal a pale ankle now blooming with bruises.

"It's broken."

"A first year could have told me that with one look," he muttered bitterly.

She went deathly still, and her eyes lifted to his, her mouth set in a furious little line.

"Yes, well… should I be quicker about it?"

He lifted a brow, surprised she would remember such a conversation. While it might have stuck with him for the remainder of his life, he didn't think it would have with her.

"Do what you must," he hissed, "Just get it over with."

"The sooner I'm rid of your presence," she reminded him with a gentle smirk, "The better, young man."

He snorted slightly at the thought of being a 'young man', but bit back a howl as she reset his foot, then swiftly performed the necessary spells.

·

"Miss?"

Hermione jumped, startled awake.

"Dobby?"

"Sirs is alright, Miss. No more worrying, tonight."

"Oh, good…" she lifted a hand to her mouth, pinching her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger, hating that she could have fallen asleep when Snape was out there, risking his life for them, "Good."

Dobby quirked his head, then nodded. He hopped back and forth on his feet, then hobbled away, without even saying goodbye. She watched him go with a swelling fondness, then turned around and gazed out the window, blearily looking over the dark black teeth of the Forbidden Forest.

She stepped forward, despite a clenching feeling in her stomach, the produce of a lifelong fear of heights. The ground seemed so far below her, so far… she could see all the air passing by her before her body crushed to the ground, and it made her feel flustered and off-balance.

But the wind was cool and her skin felt numb and cold. She couldn't feel anything, really, but she could feel fear—at least he wasn't heartless, yet. At least the darkness was at bay, for now, and she was herself.

Hopeful, she inhaled the crisp summer night, then stepped away… bed was calling to her. And tomorrow, she would don her mask and face the world: Harry and Ron, and all of Hogwarts.


	22. The Feast

**A/N: Thank you to all my reviewers... you've kept me going. Enjoy! PS, a few lines during the feast were pulled directly from HBP... if it looks or sounds familiar, that's why.**

Chapter 21  
The Feast

"You're going to be late, you know," Hermione's reflection taunted, shaking her bushy head and scowling.

The witch crossed her arms and turned away from the mirror, chewing her lip as she checked the time for the umpteenth time. To be honest, however, the hour mattered little… what bothered her the most was the date, and that remained unchanged, obviously.

With a scowl, she returned to the mirror, leaning close to inspect her face for smudges.

"The feast isn't for hours, you know. You could take a moment to spruce yourself up for once."

"No time," she tossed back, scowl deepening.

The feast wasn't for hours, yet, but she had appointment with Snape in mere minutes.

"Your loss," the mirror reminded her, scoffing.

She rolled her eyes. Whenever the feast did commence, whether it was hours or minutes, looking beautiful was the least of her worries. As soon as Harry and Ron were back, her strange holiday would truly be over; she would be forced to face the complications posed by choosing to fight for her magic, the main one being lying to the boys.

It had been her choice and she was forced to live with it, now. Still, it was not as easy a choice to make as one might think it was. Yes, she could have easily gone into hiding with her parents and turned "Muggle", and yes, it was certainly easy to believe that trying something, _anything_ , even if it meant lying to everyone would be an obvious choice to select, given the stakes, but that didn't mean it made the circumstances easier to bear.

Granted, there had been no guarantee that anything Snape could do would help her, but she had made some improvements, so she was glad for her choice, if not completely happy with the problems that she now faced due to them. But she also, admittedly, had not expected that she would have so little to be proud of by the time Harry and Ron returned to her.

When she had been _living_ it, time had seemed to pass so slowly, painfully, and yet, here she was, in the blink of an eye, on the first day of term. She was still stuck in the same frustrating circumstances, but she was alive, and she was getting better, if only marginally.

It was hardly believable that they would be beside her so soon. So much time had been lost already, regardless of how much more she would need to wait. June, July, August—they were all behind her, but she had no idea how that was even possible. It seemed like yesterday she was just climbing the back of a thestral and flying, terrified, over London. How could it have been so many months already since the Department of Mysteries, and now the beginning of her sixth year at Hogwarts?

"Well, it doesn't matter how. You're here and there's no going back, unless you can find yourself a time turner."

Her reflection snorted, "Good luck with that, darling."

The devices were all gone, for all she knew, as many of them had been smashed during the battle. Unfortunately, she was stuck in this time stream. No matter what she did or could do to stop it, her friends would return, and they would no doubt be curious about her summer. Little did they know, it was far less exciting than they might have imagined it to be... and yet, perhaps far more, depending on how one looked at her peculiar situation.

Regardless, what in the world was she supposed to tell them? The truth?

 _Hello, Ronald. Harry. I'm sure you've been curious… to tell you the truth, I've been struggling with a magical illness. But don't worry, I'm learning to defend my body and mind from Professor Snape, and pretending to be learning healing from Madam Pomfrey… why, do you ask? Well, because we had to tell Voldemort something reasonable, or else he would go after me... well, sooner, that is._

She could only imagine their reactions. Nothing she anticipated they might do would be helpful to the situation. So she would lie to them.

She carefully set her face, then, rolling her eyes before glaring at herself as she might the boys when they were trying her patience, "Honestly, Ron, Harry, my summer has been dreadfully boring… you don't want to hear me rambling for hours about the properties of Murtlap Essence, do you?"

 _Not bad—but while Ron might fall for it, Harry is already suspicious enough as it is._

She groaned with frustration. Harry wasn't the brightest, but he had great instincts… Truly, she wondered if she could pull off lying to him for longer than an hour without him losing his temper. He would not take well if he suspected she did not trust him, or if he felt that he was being protected from the truth.

But she would have to lie to him. If what was happening to her was anything like what she suspected was happening (as impossible as it might be), having anyone know, especially Harry, the most vulnerable to Voldemort's powers of legilimency, would only leave her, and anyone who loved her, in extreme danger—which gave her all the more reason to be extremely cautious and to work that much harder to get better.

It also made her extremely nervous of her abilities to keep her own secret, no matter the cost.

Hermione returned to the mirror, and nervously pressed down her cheeks with her fingertips, peering at the paleness of her skin. Her reflection frowned at her, as unconvinced that she was ready to face the day looking as she did. But she had to… right?

Cringing slightly, she straightened her now loosely fitted uniform skirt and headed for the portal. Snape would be waiting for her, and she had no doubt he would be unhappy with her tardiness.

•

"You're rather late to relay such precious information to me, Severus."

The dark haired wizard chose silence over a tart remark, knowing that none of what he offered was of any particular value. There was no bite to Dumbledore's words, of course, but it didn't change that fact that what he said was as annoying as he had intended it to be.

Naturally, Albus' fixed him with his blue eyes. Severus glared back, trying hard not to squirm in his seat in discomfort.

 _Bloody meddling mediwitch._

He should have refused Pomfrey's care, knowing the consequences… it was the sign of a true mediwitch that she could heal so easily with magic, but a side-effect was that the process was never quite as quick as one might imagine it would be, nor painless as one might hope. Especially for him.

His curse was created to make him suffer, after all, and it did not take kindly to the presence of healing magic.

 _"_ What other news?"

"As I have said already, headmaster, I have nothing of substance to offer."

He hissed when he felt a not-so-subtle swiping sensation at the surface of his mind. It sent chilling ripples down his spine, and he fought the knee-jerk reaction to shove the man out of his head. Jaw clenched, he allowed the headmaster to rifle through the past day of memories, including those of his dealings with Fawkes, Dobby, and Poppy, and his personal struggle that night with his back. After she'd finally left him to his own devices, he'd found himself writhing in agony, both suffering and healing under Poppy's magic.

The witch was talented, yes, but was no match for such a curse. And he would never willingly admit to her that it put him at such a disadvantage, knowing she would not understand or believe him. As talented as she was, she knew less than a quarter of what he did about dark magic.

Thoughtfully, Albus peered over him with his half-moon glasses, "Severus, if you need to take the day to recover, by all means…"

He hissed, hating the gentle tone the man had taken on, resenting him evermore for slowly dying, even if they did not speak of it… resenting him more because he knew the man knew better than to bother even asking such a thing of him.

Grimacing, he leaned forward, gripping the arms of the chair, "I will not bother nursing a wound you and I both know will never heal."

"Never? That is a poor attitude to have, Severus."

"When have I ever had anything less than a poor attitude?" Severus sniffed, lip curling upward as slowly as he stood.

"Perhaps you are right," Albus mused, as if the idea was supposed to be amusing.

He cursed inwardly as his back shrieked, sending stabbing pains though his shoulders down and inward.

"Are we finished?" Severus snarled, "I believe your current charity case is heading to my office as we speak."

"Give Miss Granger my regards, then."

He snarled in response. Albus merely nodded calmly and smiled in a way that infuriated him even further. As soon as he was free, Severus turned and headed for his office, his mask held so tightly that it twisted his face into a furious scowl.

•

Hermione arrived to the defense corridor a handful of minutes later than she should have, and certainly slightly out of breath. The door, however, was warded shut, as it did not budge when she grasped the handle, nor quiver in the slightest when she knocked several times. She began to back away from it warily, wondering if he had forgotten, or if she was meant to meet him in the Room of Requirement.

 _Or maybe he's locked you out._

Before that thought could consume her, a wash of energy fell over her skin. For a moment, she closed her eyes and let the intense smell of bergamot, smoke, and herbs overwhelm her. It immediately set all of her nerves to rights, making her feel rooted in the world rather than at odds with it.

"You are late."

His voice, while familiar, cut through the illusion like a knife stabbing through a curtain. She practically jumped out of her skin, having slipped into a place not unlike the Divide, and, literally, stumbled backwards into a solid body.

Snape stiffened at the contact, and, for a moment, remained. When she stepped away and turned, however, his expression recoiled from discomfort into a cool, unfeeling mask.

Hermione's cheeks warmed as her eyes met his—a sign of confidence in her abilities, or so she hoped it would be.

"Must you sneak up on me?" she muttered as she dared peer into the endless depths of onyx, before remembering herself and adding, "sir."

"Why should I not?" He sneered, "It appears you have learned nothing from me, Miss Granger."

Having been off-kilter all day, and having beat herself up for hours, she was not in the mood to have him take out his frustrations on her, "I've learned more than you think."

"Oh, have you, now?" His eyes narrowed over her face, and she could feel him peering into her soul, searching as was the nature of a Legilimens. She allowed him access, knowing that any wall she drew up would only delay him. As he had taught her, it was better to defend her mind with illusion and tricks than with walls.

 _"If your enemy believes he has won, he is already at a disadvantage,"_ she heard him echo in her mind, as he assessed the memory of her standing at the door, waiting for him.

Naturally, she blocked all senses from him, save her ears, which detected his steps half a second before his voice. That seemed to satisfy him and he withdrew slightly.

"I am no longer at a disadvantage if you reveal your strategy to me, Granger."

"What does it matter for me to hide that? You already know my mind inside and out.."

"Hardly," he scowled.

"One might think you helped shape it—"

He—to her shock—snorted. It was barely audible, so quiet another might have missed it, "Hmm, I think not, Miss Granger. Otherwise you would be much more tolerable a pupil."

"Would I, now?" She retorted, surprised at her sudden candor.

She felt him leave her mind completely with a roll of his eyes. He then opened the door with a wave of his hand.

Hermione found herself staring at him, stunned. Typically, he took more liberties than that… but, given what she knew of how his night had gone, it was not unlikely that he was drained. Or that he was simply uninterested.

 _That's a good sign, is it not?_

"Are you just going to stand there like an idiot all day?"

She blushed again, feeling stupid for getting lost in her thoughts so obviously. He ushered her through the doorway, leading her into the Defense classroom.

He swept promptly to the chalkboard, flicking his wrist and sending writing across it in a familiar, spidery hand. As she watched, he summoned books to his desk, and began sending posters to cover the windows.

"Can I help with anything, sir?" She asked as her eyes narrowed over a gruesome picture of the Unforgivables being cast upon some poor, writhing soul.

"No," he said curtly, turning away from her again, "If I must wait on you, Granger, it is only natural that you will wait on me."

She knew better than to argue that he had been the tardier one, and was patiently waiting for him to begin. Rather than stay where she was, she drifted over to the edge of the classroom, where extra books were placed for the convenience of his pupils.

With a hum of interest, she drew one into her lap. As he silently prepared for tomorrow's lesson, she lounged on the side counter, thumbing through the book with mild interest (she had, of course, already read through it).

•

Across the room, Snape found himself frozen as his magic continued to weave around him, sending supplies where they were needed, vanishing anything left behind by previous teachers. He'd removed every trace of Umbridge two nights prior, and only after great effort had every piece of cat paraphernalia been incinerated.

It wasn't like him to leave things like this to the last second, but he had been busy—between brewing for Lupin, his summons, tasks given by Albus, avoiding Minerva, and spending the majority of his time with Miss Granger, he had little to devote to preparing for his lessons. Thankfully, he'd had them written ages ago and now only needed to review them.

Not that he couldn't manage without any plans. He was still a talented dueler, and knowledgeable of the dark arts. But he found there was an air of dread that had fallen over him since accepting the position. No doubt it was the curse Voldemort had set upon it.

Still, he knew his own apprehension was partly to blame. This would not be an easy job, in the least… balancing would be difficult.

He frowned as he watched her. The light was dim in the room, but a shaft of sunlight broke through. It danced over her skin, bare at her knees and some of her thigh. There was a slat over her torso, then another gap of light at her neck. It caught the golden tinge of a highlighted curl over her shoulder, from the hair that was spilling out of a clip. Why she even bothered to even attempt tame it, he couldn't fathom. The curls had a mind of their own.

He was remiss to deny that there was any other adjective that could describe her, save lovely. Hidden beneath a cold expression, internally he was mesmerized by how focused her eyes were upon the page, oblivious to how intently he gazed upon her. Slowly, he drew his eyes upward, over her face, watching as her dusky skin turned yellow gold in the light, then fell back into shadow over her chin and lips and nose.

After a time, she felt him staring and lifted her head. Her brow furrowed only slightly, with curiosity that was so natural to her. He found it wasn't as irritating as it might have been coming from anyone else.

As she had said, he knew her mind, inside and out. From anyone else, such curiosity would make him squirm. From her, it only made him uneasy… uneasy because he welcomed it. Even in as much pain as he was in, in her presence, he felt... lighter. And when she looked at him, he did not feel a sense of self-disgust as he did when others gazed upon him.

How… peculiar, a feeling. To welcome someone's gaze upon him, after years of relishing the feeling of being invisible.

"Are you finished?" He asked, less venemous than he had intended.

"Yes," she answered, though he knew she would have much rather pointed out that she had been waiting for him, not the other way around. Somewhere in these past few months, she'd found patience for him.

 _That is a dangerous notion._

"We must speak candidly."

She snorted slightly, which caused him to narrow his eyes.

"Sorry," she muttered, then casually crossed her legs. He found his eyes fixed on her face as she did so, which was easy, considering she was donned in the school uniform of his place of occupation, reminding him of the years between them, "You never speak any other way, sir."

"True as that might be," he noted grimly, "I am attempting to spare myself a headache by laying everything out before you, a platitude I do not grant to everyone."

"Of course," she inclined her head, and he watched the curiosity burgeon behind her amber eyes. Beneath the shadow, they looked darker than they were, more guarded than they ever had been, "I appreciate that, sir."

For a moment, he got the sinking feeling she was hiding something from him, but now was not the time to go hunting for menial secrets.

"As you know, students are returning this evening," he said evenly.

The somewhat calm expression on her face faltered.

He felt a blistering of his soul at the befallen expression, all cool confidence lost. Merlin, how were they ever going to keep this secret if she revealed her emotions so easily?

"Naturally, we cannot continue with the current schedule we have employed."

"No, I suppose not," she murmured sadly.

He felt puzzled by that, but continued, "I have decided that we will no longer meet in the Room of Requirement."

She nodded. There were too many students who now knew of it.

"Nor can we meet here. It poses too much of a risk that we might be seen... Granted, the dark lord knows I am assisting you, but at this point, your potions training should have been relatively complete."

She agreed with a sad nod.

"I understand. Thank you for all you have done for me, sir."

"What are you on about, Granger?"

"Sir?"

"You are nowhere near ready to conclude this—training, therapy, what have you," he glowered at the stupid furrowing of her brow, "Or did you think you were ready to continue on without me?"

There was a curious tilt of her lips at the anecdote, but she said nothing, to which he was grateful. What the hell was getting into him, lately?

"I have arranged for you to meet with me every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday evening at the Shrieking Shack. We will resume whatever lessons there."

He saw the wheels in her head turning. Tuesdays and Thursdays were typically Gryffindor Quidditch practice days, and on Saturdays there were various club meetings as well as matches. She would not be missed by her friends during such hours.

"Madam Pomfrey will need your assistance every morning, Monday through Friday, during particular hours. You will practice brewing at this time. Because of this, you will no longer be enrolled in Care of Magical Creatures, and must make a choice between Ancient Runes and Arithmancy."

He knew she would be furious. But rather than exerting it, she merely stared ahead, bottling the anger as he had taught her to.

"Well?"

"Arithmancy," she answered, scowling. He smirked in response.

 _Good girl. If you can't learn Ancient Runes on your own, gods help you. Arithmancy is much more necessary for research purposes._

Of course, he could tutor her in Arithmancy if needed, but he doubted she would want to give up both if she didn't have to.

"As of now, you will maintain your prefect status," he continued carefully, "But should your condition worsen, you will pass the role onto another."

She opened her mouth to object, but he silenced her.

"You may attend all of your classes, but should I see fit and depending upon the curriculum, or if I feel you are overexerting yourself, I will send you on a task. Because we have not informed the staff, if you, for any reason, feel like you cannot accomplish magic in any of your lessons, you will alert Madam Pomfrey, who will send for your assistance with an obviously contrived medical emergency."

"That's… well, genius," she murmured softly, "How should I contact her?"

Severus crossed his arms, "Do you understand Protean charms?"

Hermione pulled the chain from her neck, revealing what appeared to be a galleon coin which she had attached. Severus' brow lifted in response.

"It's charmed to contact any member of Dumbledore's Army."

He headed toward her with two long, direct strides. She attempted to remove the necklace as he did so, but it would not slip over her hair. Eventually, she resolved to lifting it up for him to see. Snape didn't seem bothered by the notion, and hovered over the galleon as she cupped it in her hand for him to see.

She couldn't remember being so close to him in such a circumstance, in all the months they had sent together. His aroma alone was enough to send her stomach into knots. It was intoxicating, his scent, almost as if—

"Where did you learn this charm?" He lifted his eyes and pierced her with them.

She'd never seen them this close, at least, she hadn't when he wasn't sneering at her. The darkness was beautiful, perfectly black, fathomless. Hypnotizing.

"I made it," she muttered, breaking the spell between them. She regretted it instantly, missing the intensity of his eyes upon hers.

He dropped his head again, then pulled a sickle from his pocket. He tapped his wand against the surface. Another two appeared, flawless as the first. He gave one of them back to her, then tapped the one he kept.

Hers glared with one twirling message.

" _Give the other to Madam Pomfrey. I will keep this one—_ " she recited as the words appeared, "How did you—"

"Don't be bothersome," he told her tartly, smirking down at her when she scoffed. She took the opportunity to glance over his face, capturing the memory of such an unusual expression upon such sharp features. He appeared almost calm… not quite amused, but definitely not unhappy, or displeased. She fixated on the curve of his lip, less taut than it ever had been, looser, making his lips appear softer and fuller.

Eventually she lifted her eyes away from his mouth and found the dark, piercing and black irises gazing down at her. He stiffened and backed away in a single step. She knew that this would likely be the best time to show her gratitude, given how good of a mood he seemed to be in.

"Sir?"

"What?"

"I just wanted…" she couldn't look at him as she said it, knowing he would want to graze her mind, so instead she toyed with one sickle, "I wanted to thank you—"

"For doing as I am ordered? It is hardly an act to be grateful," He reminded her, before turning away. His shoulders hunched tightly, and she had an inkling that he was in intense pain, surprising considering his demeanor. She wanted badly to go to him, to lay a hand on his shoulder, to somehow ease the pain. But she knew it was unlikely that it might even do the opposite.

What kind of man would he be, without such a weight on his shoulders? Would she ever be able to see him in such a way, or would he forever be the man who was before her?

"But I am, sir… grateful, that is."

"Stupid girl," he replied with boredom, "As if I care for your pleasantries."

Once upon a time, those words might have stung her. But here, now, she knew there was nothing to be angry over. He said those words to defend himself, to keep her at an arm's distance. Unfortunately, she was far too curious-and yes, too stupid-to turn back now.

"You will go, now. I haven't time to bother."

"See you at the feast, then, Professor," she said, nodding, before she stood and left, hands twisting around the two sickles in her hand.

He watched her go, finally relaxing when the door slammed shut. His body quivered, her absence reminding him of the peculiarity of her presence. There was something comforting about the way she set her eyes upon him. Knowing he couldn't hope for it, he relished the feeling of pain blooming over him, welcoming it like he might an old friend.

•

Hermione gave the coin to Madam Pomfrey. They shared a few pleasantries, but the younger witch found herself wanting to distract herself. She ended up wandering the grounds… of course, she was hopeful to run into Hagrid, but the wizard still had not returned from his mission for the Order. So instead she walked to the lake, where she sat on the shore, twisting the sickle over and over and over in her hands. The air was cold, a product of the breeding Dementors throughout the country.

Unlike the surrounding environment, the metal still felt slightly warm from Snape's magic… or perhaps it was because she was clutching it so tightly in her hands, transferring her heat to it, over and over and over?

In silence, she watched the sun set. When she saw the carriages (prepared by Professor Hooch in Hagrid's absence) set off, she stood and brushed herself off, intent for the Entrance Hall.

After a time, she transferred from the grounds to the Entrance Hall. Professor McGonagall swept into the hall just as she did, and spotted her quickly. Behind her totted several small chests and one half-sized Professor who was levitating them.

"Granger, since you are doing nothing better, would you assist Professor Flitwick with the ceremonial candles?"

She nodded hastily, knowing it would be suspicious if she didn't. Rather than levitate the box with her wand (or rather, her talisman), she swept up and grabbed one chest with her arms, canceling the levitation magic. Flitwick didn't seem to notice, but McGonagall whirled a brow towards her, keen eyes narrowing.

"All you must do is levitate them, my dear, and the castle will do—oh, who am I kidding?" Flitwick chuckled when she tossed one in the air artfully, and it was caught in the castle's levitation field, "Of course you already know!"

For a moment, she wondered if a student had ever thought to levitate themselves up there. She imagined it might be fun to float, weightless… at least until she thought of the distance between the ground and the ceiling and felt queasy.

Now, Hogwarts' magic was likely not to fail, but to fall from such a great height would be fatal, even for a witch.

 _Especially one with no magic._

"Ahem," Flitwick murmured and she snapped back into the real world. She smiled and apologized and continued her chore.

It was a quick process, despite the amount of candles there were to be distributed. The small man didn't have anything to say about her tossing up the candles instead of levitating them, although she could feel McGonagall watching her closely from where she was speaking with Professor Sprout at the Head Table. Both likely thought it was her Muggle upbringing shining through, or so she hoped.

When they were finished, she stepped back to admire their work, watching the candles dance slowly over their heads.

"Now," Flitwick admired beside her, "We simply need to light them—"

She cringed, but luckily, Professor Dumbledore smiled, "Allow me?"

With a wave of one, healthy hand, all the candles were lit, and the Great Hall suddenly seemed to sparkle. She looked up, dazzled by how much difference it had made.

"They're coming," one of the professors said excitedly. Hermione glanced towards the Head Table, where many of the teachers were lounging, talking to one another. Snape was there, sitting two places down where he normally sat. Instead of sitting next to McGonagall, he would be between Hagrid and Vector… Hagrid was absent, but Vector was there, ignoring his presence in favor of Professor Burbage. Professor Slughorn, who had insisted on traveling on the Express to "get to know his students" arrived before any of the students and placed himself beside the two with a pompous plop, much to the women's bemusement.

Hermione felt her lips twitch when they shifted away from each other as Slughorn began a conversation with them, knowing the two of them were a lot closer than they let onto their students. She was happy to have been given the opportunity to see a different side of them, even if it had only been two weeks.

Tears suddenly gathered in her eyes, overwhelmed with an emotion she could not name. Rather than let anyone, especially Snape, see them, she turned her back to the Head Table, to face the students as they began to trickle into the Great Hall. A few sent her puzzled glances, but quickly became overcome with each other's conversations.

She found her way to the Gryffindor table, drifting in between the clusters of friends who mingled around the benches.

"Hermione!"

Before she could prepare for it, she was overcome with a hug. Wildflowers overwhelmed her nostrils, and a curtain of red flew around her.

"Ginny," she greeted with slight surprise.

"It's good to see you up and about," the redhead said breathily, leaning backwards and turning to glance at Dean Thomas, who appeared to be hovering behind her, "Doesn't she look lovely?"

"Yeah," Dean said with a lopsided smile, "Glad you're better, Hermione."

"Oh, I've been fine for ages," Hermione lied.

"Mm, but I haven't seen it with my own eyes, you know?" Ginny grabbed her hand, then turned to glare over the heads of the surrounding people, "And where is that daft brother of mine? He wouldn't shut up about you all summer… I honestly don't think he would have made it to sixth year without your help on his homework, 'Mione."

"Oi!" Ron said from behind her.

"Ronald!" Hermione found herself saying, overwhelmed at the sight of him. He'd grown taller, much taller, but no longer appeared gangly and awkward. His shoulders were broader, his face was less soft. But the differences ended there… his hair was still flaming red and his skin was still dusted in freckles. When he looked at her, his ears turned pink, which caused a part of her to wither with guilt.

It was the same Ron, just grown up. And she was still Hermione—although she feared she had changed in many more ways than he had. For a moment, his blue eyes pierced through her, and she feared he could see exactly how panicked she was.

But then he grinned at her, rather than frowned, "Hey, 'Mione."

It took less than a second for her to throw her arms around him and hug him tightly.

 _How could I have ever worried?_

"What have you been eating?" Hermione suddenly said, pulling away, once again overcome with the sight of him.

"What?" Ron swiped at his mouth, checking for stains on his sleeve, "Is there something on my face?"

"Oh, Merlin," Ginny rolled her eyes, then grabbed Dean's hand and tugged him away.

Hermione distracted Ron from watching them go, unsure if he knew that they were an item, or not, "Where's Harry, then?"

The redhead seemed to falter for a moment, before he turned and glanced behind him, "Er…"

"What do you mean, 'er'?" She found herself asking in exasperation.

"Well, he was invited by Slughorn to some ridiculous lunch party," she could detect a hint of jealousy in Ron's voice, "And then he… er, never came back, I suppose."

"Never came back?" She hissed, "Ron—"

"He'll turn up, 'Mione. Quit being such a worrywart," he muttered with reddened cheeks, "I'm sure he's just being typical Harry."

"Typical Harry— _Ronald_! When typical Harry goes missing, he's probably getting into something dangerous. Did you even bother looking for him?"

"Well, er… no, but—Neville said he went off after Zabini."

"Blaise? Why would he go off after Blaise?"

"I don't know! Same reason he and I tailed Malfoy in Knockturn Alley a few days ago, I s'pose…"

"Are you both out of your mind?" Hermione hissed, "Death Eaters could have seen you—"

"We're not idiots, Hermione! We had the cloak on."

"It doesn't matter, Ron. There's a war going on. You shouldn't be so _reckless._ "

"Of course we know. We fought in it, not so long ago," Ron said testily, "I might not remember much of the Department myself, Hermione, but I remember some—"

"Remembering isn't enough, Ronald," Hermione hissed, "If you never learn from your mistakes."

"What am I supposed to do? I can't control Harry, you know that!"

"No, but you can at least keep a better eye on him! That's what best friends do, Ronald!"

"Well, maybe if you had been there on the train, you could have kept a better eye on him!"

She set her mouth, silenced by his implication that she wouldn't have chosen to be with Harry if she could have. But, then again, in his eyes, she _had_ chosen this.

"Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger," Hermione and Ron glanced up and found McGonagall glaring at them from the Head Table. With worried glances, they looked about, and noticed that the rest of the Great Hall was seated and ready for Dumbledore's short welcoming speech to the first-years, who were no doubt eager to enter, "If you are finished?"

Ron turned bright pink. Hermione found her eyes flitting towards the Head Table, where she saw Snape staring at her with a bored expression on his face.

"Sorry," Ron muttered, before he took her by the shoulders and ushered her to sit in between Seamus and an unrecognizable fourth year who watched them with an amused grin.

Hermione couldn't stop looking at Snape, whose mouth curled into an expression of hatred when she plopped down close to Ronald. She felt the coldness of his gaze, the exact opposite of the depth she had experienced earlier when he had looked at her. A part of her withered, saddened by the realization that here, among the school, he was someone completely different to her than when they were alone.

"Welcome back," Dumbledore began, "The Sorting Ceremony shall begin promptly. Minerva?"

McGonagall swept down the center of the Entrance Hall, to retrieve the youngest of their students. Hermione glanced around the Gryffindor Table, desperately searching for Harry. When he could not be found, she turned back around, towards the Head Table.

 _Harry is missing!_

She projected the thought outwards, knowing that it was impossible that Snape or even Dumbledore could hear her.

Desperately, she pleaded for Snape to look at her, to glance at her just one more time, so he could see what she was thinking. All her shields were down, waiting for him to reach inside and take what she wanted him to know. Harry was missing. What if he was hurt, or dead?

"Please."

"Hermione, are you alright?" Neville asked from across the table, his rounded face looking concerned.

"Oh, yes," she said distractedly, her eyes darting from the gaggle of first years being led by Professor McGonagall. They all appeared so tiny, so vulnerable…

 _How many of them will live to the end of this wretched war?_

Sickened by such a notion, the hat's song washed over her, the words unheard. She gazed emptily forward, unfocused, wallowing in a strange sense of dread and hopelessness. Faintly, she felt Ron beside her, and knew he was glaring glumly towards the first years as they were called one by one up to the stool.

Eventually, she looked back towards Snape and found his cold gaze focused ahead of him. As the hat suddenly spoke out "Gryffindor!" And her house erupted in cheers around her, the dark eyes slipped to hers. She pushed every anxiety she was feeling towards him, urging for him to understand.

His face remained stoic, unfeeling, but his eyes… she could feel them absorbing what she felt, and knew he had received her message. Only when she surged forward in relief did he break his gaze away. He wasted no time. In two strides, he was at the side of the headmaster, whispering something. Dumbledore nodded as he clapped to congratulate the next sorting, allowing Professor Snape to take his leave.

Of course, she wanted to follow him, but she fought the urge to go after him, to go searching for Harry with him. The professors would stop her, of course. And she didn't need to call more attention to herself than she already had.

"Where is he—"

"Oh, look, Ronald," Hermione said, "Hagrid's back!"

"Back?" Ronald muttered, "What do you mean?"

"He's been gone most of the summer," Hermione whispered, "He's returned only a few times."

"Right," Ron said, brow furrowed.

"Did you see that?" Hermione stood up slightly, eyes fixated on a flash of silvery light erupting behind Hagrid. The half-giant spun around, but his body blocked what she thought was a patronus.

"See what?"

Hermione ignored Ron, too concerned with watching Hagrid. The half-giant went to the headmaster, but Albus seemed to dismiss whatever it was he had to say, as he returned to his seat shortly.

As Ron and the others began a conversation quietly during the rest of the sorting, she continued to glance towards the entrance, waiting for Snape to return with Harry in tow, then to Pomfrey, wondering if she would disappear to tend to some wound that he'd accrued.

"Hermione," Ron whispered a while later.

"What?" She asked without looking at him.

"Are you going to eat?"

"Oh," she murmured, glancing towards the food that had blossomed in front of her, "I suppose."

She remembered Snape's instructions, reminding her that she needed her strength if she was ever going to recover. And so she placed a few bites into her mouth, and forced herself to swallow.

"What in the hell?" Ron suddenly muttered over a mouthful of food.

"Did you see that, too?"

"Who in the world lost us points on the first day of term?"

Hermione whipped her head around and found that the glowing counter above the Gryffindor Point capsule was glowing red, signaling that there was a change in points. It pulsated once more, falling from –50 to –70. Unlike her peers, however, Hermione felt her mouth twitch into a smile. Snape was vindictive, yes, but he wouldn't waste time taking points if Harry was truly injured.

"Thank God," she uttered to herself.

A handful of minutes later, Harry arrived looking more than a little peeved. Snape did not appear after him instantly, however. It was likely he was enjoying his time away from the feast and milking it for all it was worth.

Ron greeted him first, "Where've you—blimey, what've you done to your face?"

"Why, what's wrong with it?"

Hermione resisted the urge to burst into tears, and instead channeled her inner bossiness, "You're covered in blood—come here…" she reached instinctively for her wand, but then found that she had no idea if she could clean up his face with any of the available talismans.

"What in heavens name did you do?" She asked, instead, pulling his face towards her to inspect it, "Have you lost your mind? What do you mean going off and missing half the feast like that, making us worry?"

"Good to see you, too, Hermione," Harry said, shrugging her off slightly, "Do you have a spell for this?"

"I think you deserve to sit there covered in your own blood for being so _stupid!_ What do you mean by going off after Malfoy like that?"

"How did you—" Harry's eyes darted towards the surrounding witnesses, all too aware that they were listening, "Nevermind."

"Harry, what happened? We've been terrified."

"Later," he urged, piercing her with his beautiful green eyes, "You look different."

"What?" She asked, surprised, "What do you mean?"

"Just different," he murmured, eyes darting over her face, "It's really good to see you, too."

"Oh, Harry," she sniffled, tears welling, "You really must tell me what happened."

"Not now, Hermione," he urged her darkly, shrugging away from her. The bushy-haired witch sighed and turned back to her food, overwhelmed with relief. When she lifted her gaze, she found Snape was back. She bowed her head towards him, thankful. In response, he rolled his eyes in Sinistra's direction, but he knew it was meant for her.

"Oh, good Merlin, Fay, it's just a bit of blood," Ginny muttered irritably, before she whipped out her wand and said, " _Tergeo_ ," clearing Harry's face of the mess.

Beside the redheaded beauty, Dean seemed slightly off-put by the action, even more so when Ginny grinned at Harry and said, "You look much less distinguished, now, Harry, but we can't have Dunbar hurling all over the feast platters."

"Thanks, Gin," Harry said softly, cheeks looking slightly flushed. Hermione didn't know if it was because of the magic or the dazzling wink Ginny sent his way.

Hermione attempted to ease the uneasy air that settled between the group, "You missed the Sorting, you know, Harry."

"I'm sure I've missed quite a lot," Harry said with a tone of resentment, "Your letters weren't exactly forthcoming."

Hermione grew quiet, "Well that's because my summer wasn't very interesting."

"Malfoy seemed to think it was," Harry said under his breath.

"What?" She hissed.

"We'll talk later," he reminded her, suddenly looking sheepish, as if he hadn't meant to let that bit out.

"Harry—"

"Shush," he urged her, gesturing toward Dumbledore.

She scoffed in his direction, but found her eyes drifting upward as a gasp erupted among the crowd.

"Merlin, what's wrong with his hand?" Ron murmured.

"Nothing to worry about," the headmaster answered the crowd's cringes and cries of worry.

She felt Harry glance at her, ponderously, and knew she had made a mistake by not revealing the incident to him. Groaning, inwardly, she tried to ignore his gaze and focus instead on Dumbledore's speech.

"His hand was like that when I saw him over the summer… I thought he'd have it cured by now. Or Madam Pomfrey would've done."

"Some injuries can't be cured," Hermione reminded him, "Old curses…" She resisted the urge to gaze at Snape, "… potions without antidotes."

Dumbledore continued on with his speech as the three of them watched with grim expression. He droned on about Quidditch and Filch and the like. Finally, he arrived at the topic which Hermione knew would be the cause of great uproar, especially amongst the Gryffindors.

"Now, we are pleased to welcome a new member of the staff this year... Professor Slughorn, a former colleague of mine who has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master."

Hermione took the opportunity to glance at Harry, to watch his reaction. She saw his face slacken with shock. His eyes glanced furiously towards Snape, who managed to put on a farce expression of smugness. Hermione looked at the dark-haired professor, too, knowing that half the hall would be doing so, as well. Amongst the sea of eyes, she hoped he could find hers, and know she was with him, rather than against.

Not that he would care.

"Professor Snape, meanwhile, will be taking over the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"No!"

Hermione cringed when Harry's voice echoed over the Great Hall, which had succumbed to an eerie, stunned silence. When the stares fell away from the Chosen One and back towards Dumbledore's clearing throat, Harry spun on her.

"Did you know about this, too?" He hissed.

"I only just found out last week," Hermione murmured to him, urging him to remain quiet.

"Right," Harry tossed back at her. The rest of the hall continued to listen, but a few Gryffindors tossed them interested glances, "Well at least there's one good thing. Snape'll be gone by the end of the year."

"What do you mean?" She heard herself ask. Ron looked equally inquisitive.

"That job's jinxed. No one's lasted more than a year," Hermione and Ron shared a look, calculating all of their past teachers in comparison to one another, "Personally, I'm going to keep my fingers crossed for another death…"

" _Harry_!" Hermione said, shocked to hear him say such a thing. To wish death on a person was simply… well, it wasn't something she expected of Harry. Even towards Snape, who had appeared not too long before, that was extreme behavior for him.

Of course, she knew the job was jinxed, too. She'd suspected it after third year, when Lupin was sacked. And it was no coincidence that they had lost three teachers in three years, all belonging to the same position… let alone, five in five years.

Was Harry right? Would Snape befall a similar fate as Quirrell? Or would he leave the school of his choosing?

The castle was murmuring loudly, likely pondering the same notion. Dumbledore cleared his throat again, urging for their attention. The speech that followed their compliance was more harrowing than the last, "Now, as most of you are aware, Lord Voldemort has returned and his followers are gaining strength and influence…"

Hermione felt a coldness wash over her at the sound of You-Know-Who's name. She did not hear the rest of the headmaster's speech, but remained fixated in front of her, sightless, mindless, as the others listened, intent, around her, captivated by every word. Eventually, she looked around her, glancing at all of their faces. Many of them had known little pain in her life, had not seen the same suffering that she had… they had no idea what was in store for them. Yes, they were terrified, but their terror wasn't as real as hers, or Harry's, or even Ron's, Neville's. Ginny's.

They were so unprepared for what was to come. And no amount of speeches was going to make them feel safer. Or, at least, it shouldn't. They didn't need to feel safer. They needed to learn how to be stronger… faster. Smarter.

"Hermione."

"What?"

She jerked out of a daze. Ron was standing beside her.

"Feast's over," he reminded her. Harry was watching her with a stony gaze, obviously still peeved with her.

She cringed and stood, stumbling as she did.

"Are you alright?"

Harry's face grew slightly softer, but it didn't make her feel better.

"I'm fine. I've just remembered… I left a few of my things in the library."

"We'll go with you—"

"No, that's alright," she said, "Ron, could you escort the first years for me?"

"Er, I—I guess that would be…"

"Thanks!"

She broke away from them, pushing through the crowds to get ahead. When she broke away from them, she walked as quickly as she could up the stairs, taking a route completely opposite of her peers. Once free of any onlookers, she broke out into a run, taking steps two—three—at a time.

Eventually, she found herself at the foot of the Astronomy Tower. It didn't take long for her to decide to ascend, slamming the door closed behind her. It wasn't as if she could go to Gryffindor Tower… and the Room of Requirement wasn't far away enough from the Fat Lady for her to be comfortable with seeking solace there.

Luckily for her, there were no randy seventh-years rekindling love after a holiday away from one another. The Tower was empty and she found herself blessedly alone with the night sky above.

Instinctively, as she stumbled towards the edge of the tower, she avoided looking down, and instead fixated on the sky above. The night was surprisingly clear, and she could see Orion's Belt as clearly as she had in the wilderness with her parents, just above the black teeth of the black forest.

The night air stung her throat, sore from running, yet filled her lungs so fully. She gasped it in, desperate to avoid thinking about what waited for her in the castle below. At least up here, she felt free.

 _After three months, now you feel captive?_

"What am I doing here?" She asked the sky, dropping down to the ground into a pool of robes and hair.

With a ragged sigh, she dropped her head to her knees and began to cry, knowing she couldn't keep them at bay any longer.


	23. A Traitorous Heart

**A/N: I have to release chapters as they come, considering how long I've put this off. Enjoy.**

Chapter 22  
A Traitorous Heart

Hermione woke early the next morning and waited in the Common Room for Ron and Harry, utilizing the time it took for them to wake to study her Charms text. When they arrived, Harry immediately explained what had happened the day before to her.

"You really ought not to have done that," she gently scolded as they headed for the Entrance Hall.

"He's up to something, Hermione," he insisted, "You must realize he is."

She and Ron shared a look, and she decided to answer carefully, "That may be, Harry, but look what happened to you last night. What if Tonks hadn't been looking for you? What if he'd hurt you worse?"

"I've had _much_ worse and lived to tell the tale," he reminded her, and there was a look in his eyes that hinted to the fact that so had she.

Of course, she opened her mouth to say more, but Ron interrupted swiftly, "But he was obviously just showing off for Parkinson, wasn't he?"*

He pleaded with her with piercing blue eyes, as if asking for her to just let it go.

"Well," she said, trying not to reveal the defeat she felt in submitting to the request, knowing that Harry needed someone to tell him to be careful, "I don't know… It would be like Malfoy to make himself seem more important than he is… but that's a big lie to tell…"*

"Exactly."*

Hermione, fearing Harry's darker reactions, let that be the end of it. Ron, blessedly, changed the subject for her. She smiled inwardly, thankful for him… he was far more patient with Harry than she was.

She remained reserved all the way to the Great Hall, silently admiring the wispy clouds drifting across the sky above as Harry and Ron discussed their anxiety about dropping Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid was going to be heartbroken that none of them were carrying on to NEWT level.

Hermione glanced towards the half-giant, and he waved with a cheery smile toward her. She tried to emulate his enthusiasm, but eventually ended up dropping her head and glaring at the porridge in front of her.

 _Just one more disappointment to tack on, huh?_

She grimaced and set down her spoon, glad that Snape was not present to hawk over her about her eating habits. Maybe her appetite would return by lunch time.

"Miss Granger."

Blinking, she looked up.

"Oh, hello, Professor," she greeted McGonagall, who presented her with yet another copy of her OWL exams.

"Excellent work, as expected," the witch admired sternly, "Record breaking, I believe."

She flushed when Ron elbowed her and grinned at Harry, who smiled at her, neither of them surprised with the news.

"I've taken the liberty of creating your schedule according to the conversation we had last term."

McGonagall made to step away, but Hermione spoke up, "Oh, actually, Professor, I see a mistake."

"I assure you, it's accurate."

"No, Professor, I… what I mean is that I have changed my mind since last term," Hermione interrupted, prompting Ron and Harry to glance at her in surprise, "I, er, sorry, Professor, but don't you remember? I am to assist Madam Pomfrey in the mornings. I can't take Ancient Runes at the same time as my assistantship."

The witch's eyes stayed on her face for a long moment, "But surely, Miss Granger, you can do both? Madam Pomfrey will be fine without you for that small amount of time... Ancient Runes is only an hour long lecture twice a week."

She hesitated, panic bubbling in her stomach, "I don't think I can do both, Professor."

"Well, I would suggest you see how it goes before you make a decision… I've seen you undertake more cumbersome class loads."

"No, thank you, Professor. I've learned my lesson, and I know my limits… I am dropping Ancient Runes."

"Miss Granger—"

"I don't want to take Ancient Runes, alright?" Hermione said, standing up abruptly, "I don't need the class for mediwizardry."

"And what if you change your mind?"

"I don't need to take the class to pass the NEWT, do I, so why even bother?"

Professor McGonagall glared down her nose at Hermione, shocked that she would speak so conceitedly, and only barely concealing the anger she felt at being spoken to in such a why by her star pupil. After a long pause, she lifted her wand and tapped the schedule.

"I hope you do not regret such a decision, Miss Granger," the stern witch told her, "If you do indeed attempt the exam without taking the course, I certainly will not feel remorse for any tears you might shed come NEWT time."

Across from her, Parvati and Lavender snickered, obviously amused that McGonagall would allude to her… emotional nature during exam times.

Although irritated, Hermione knew to speak up again would earn her a loss of house points, so she remained silent. McGonagall peered down her nose at her for a long while, obviously suspicious, before she turned to Neville, who would not doubt take a while to sort out.

The girls tossed her two fake expressions of concern, "Are you sure you'll live without Ancient Runes, Hermione? Whatever will you do with such free-time?"

"Oh, you know 'Mione," Ronald said, obviously not understanding that they were teasing, "She always finds something to research."

Lavender and Parvati glanced at each other, then burst out into gales of laughter.

"Oh, Ronald, you're so _hilarious_ ," Lavender muttered over her hand, looking at him with adoration. Hermione hated the way his ears turned pink when her dorm-mate reached out to touch his hand with manicured fingers.

 _Now you think he's something, after what happened at the ministry,_ she wanted to say.

Ron, on the other hand, would only be hurt by such words, and so she choked them down.

"Excuse me," she suddenly muttered, gathering all of her things hastily, "I'll be in the Hospital Wing should anyone need help with their Charms homework considering they've barely scraped by, even with my help these past five years."

She shot Lavender a look that spoke volumes, to which the blonde suddenly stopped laughing.

Ron and Harry watched her go with wary glances, neither saying a word as they could tell something had set her off, even if they would never understand what. She inwardly groaned, knowing that the latter would be even more suspicious given her testier nature this term. She couldn't help that she was so cranky—it was half his fault, anyway, for being so reckless… and partly Ron's too, for falling for Lavender's siren's song of a giggle.

 _Not that I should care… right?_

Merlin, she wasn't doing anything right, was she?

So much for being careful and acting normal… the old Hermione would never speak so harshly to Professor McGonagall, or let Lavender get the better of her… the old Hermione would never have given up Ancient Runes if she had to choose between it and her right hand, either, let alone ask to give it up. She'd rather take Divination again than give up Ancient Runes, but honestly, was it truly that heartbreaking?

 _It's only one of your favorite classes…_ _your_ favorite _class, actually._

 _But not exactly useful—_

 _But fascinating, still._

"Hello, dear."

"Hi, Po—Madam Pomfrey," she greeted Madam Pomfrey dejectedly. The mediwitch seemed to understand her without asking a single question.

Naturally, she asked Hermione to complete a few chores. There were quite a few patients… mostly first years who had had trouble sleeping the night before and a fourth-year who had jinxed himself while trying to transfigure his alarm-clock into another pillow. Pomfrey assured her that she was not needed for anything else, except to administer a few potions. When that was finished, the young witch disappeared into the side room, where a cauldron was waiting for her.

With careful eyes, she glanced through the recipe—another burn paste, to her displeasure—then at her schedule. In an hour and a half, she would be attending Defense with Snape… and Harry. Undoubtedly, she would need all the strength and patience she had to survive that class.

"Gods help me."

Groaning, she dropped down to the bench. Rather than brew and expel any much needed magical energy, she pulled out her Ancient Runes text, eyes filling with tears as they slowly drew across the pages, wishing she could be spending that hour in front of Professor Babbling.

 _·_

Floors above, Snape paced in front of the blackboard, dreading the arrival of his upcoming class. Not only was the Granger girl going to be in attendance (a matter which posed all sorts of problems), but Potter would be there, too (obviously an annoyance in and of itself.)

After last night, he was sure the boy had a freshly rekindled hatred for him, but someone needed to knock some sense into his scarred-head. Of course, Severus was the only one who dared try, as all the others were much too concerned with making sure he was fat and happy as the center of attention... Dumbledore hadn't thought his absence warranted any sort of reprimand, save the points that Severus had deducted.

What was Potter thinking, going after Draco without anyone to check up on him? With no plan, whatsoever? Without thought of his safety, or that of anyone else's?

For Merlin's sake, if the Malfoy boy was in a darker state, he might have actually attempted to do some real harm… lucky for Potter, he'd shown some restraint, completely atypical behavior for the son of a Death Eater.

The migraine growing in Severus' temple pulsed as he attempted to fathom how Potter could have learned so little after the death of his godfather. He hadn't even bothered to clear his mind, as Severus had read his emotions and thoughts without even trying: he could practically taste Harry's unrelenting hatred for Malfoy from a mile away, as well as his burgeoning curiosity for Tonks' new patronus (Severus himself couldn't fathom what that young witch was doing with Lupin, of all people). Harry's lack of protective shields in his mind cause him great concern...

How much was the dark lord privy to, even at this moment?

And from what Severus had discovered yesterday, if Hermione's secret was revealed, there was no doubt that the dark lord would learn of it not long after, thanks to Potter's carelessly stubborn nature and lack of ability. Hence, why Severus had requested an audience with Albus immediately after the feast commenced.

 _"The boy's mind is wide open, Albus. He_ must _learn Occlumency."_

 _"Then you agree to teach him, once more?"_

 _"No, I will not," Severus hissed, sweeping away from the headmaster to hover in front of the fire, "You must do it."_

 _"I cannot, Severus," the headmaster reminded him, "While Harry's view into your own memories was unpleasant for the both of you, should he peer into mine—"_

 _"Then promise him the truth should he succeed. Perhaps if he knew what was at stake, he would be more careful," Severus began, even knowing that such a notion was as dangerous as if was, "If he knew…"_

 _"If_ you _knew the truth, Severus," Albus reminded him, "You would understand why I hesitate in revealing it to the both of you."_

 _"Then tell me, so that I may understand… so that I can help."_

 _"I'm sorry, Severus, but you are not ready."_

 _Severus glowered, then stood, "After all I have done to prove to you my loyalty, you would rather I followed you along blindly, just like the rest of them? You would rather keep me at arm's length, ensuring that I do all that you say simply because you will it? Fine. I will do so, out of necessity, as I always have. But I assure you… although I might have some semblance of control, if you keep_ him _in the dark, he will lead us all to our doom."_

 _"You have always been a faithless man, Severus… but I promise, I have a plan in place that even you could find faith in."_

 _"And when you are no longer around to ensure its success, how faithful will I find myself?"_

 _"You may be right… I don't have much time, after all. But, of course, you will carry on the fight when I am gone, for as long as possible. For now, however, I will spare you from the truth for as long as I am able."_

 _"A fool's errand, as ever."_

 _"Yes, perhaps... but a necessary one, I would say."_

He glanced towards the clock, still stricken with such a notion that the headmaster was trying to _protect_ him, of all things... and, honestly, did Albus truly expect him to carry on with his plans when he was gone? How long could Severus even hope to fight after the white wizard was dead? How long would it be before he crumbled underneath the pressure of the darkness without his one last tie to the light?

Grimacing, he swept to the door. His ring was humming, alerting him to the presence of several students beyond. Not wanting to face them, or anyone, he cracked the door open slowly, gathering what little patience he had left after the last class.

"—like I told McGonagall, Harry, I don't need Ancient Runes."

"But it's your favorite subject!"

"No it isn't."

"Hermione—if you're doing this because of me, don't. I don't need a nursemaid!"

 _Of course Potter would assume every action she made was to protect him._

He scowled, angered by the notion.

The witch pleaded with her friend, "Drop it, Harry— _please_."

Severus threw open the door and stepped into the corridor, swallowing any words Potter might have spoken back. Silence descended over him and the rest of the group as a dozen pair of eyes widened toward their former potions master. He lifted his chin as they watched him approach with a single, curt step. Of course, he took a moment to gaze upon each of them, taking note of their grim expressions, inwardly relishing in the terror they felt as they gazed upon him.

Potter, in particular, looked put-out to see him. Miss Granger, on the other hand, refused to meet his gaze, and instead gazed calmly toward the wall.

"Inside," he said, wiping his mind free as he set his face into a carefully decorated mask.

·

"I have not asked you to take out your books."*

At Snape's veiled instruction, Hermione promptly dropped her textbook back into her bag and placed it under her desk. She knew better than to even attempt to leave it out given such a prompt by Snape, himself.

"I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest attention."*

The curly-haired witch watched with the rest of the class as his black eyes swept over each of their faces, lingering on hers for the barest moment, then settling on Harry's a fraction longer than all the rest. The boy in question looked miserable and fiercely glared back at Snape even after the professor had gazed away from him.

 _Please, Merlin, let this end without Harry and Snape going for each other's throats._

"You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe. Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion, I am surprised so many of you scraped an OWL in this subject… I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the NEWT work, which will be much more advanced."*

She lowered her eyes, choosing to listen to his voice, which lowered significantly as he set around the room. Rather than follow him with her eyes as the rest of the class did, she followed him with her magic… as he had taught her to.

"The Dark Arts are many varied, ever-changing, and eternal," she could hear his velvet baritone almost right in her ear, although she knew he was across the room. Her skin pimpled at the sound of it, husky and veiled, "Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible."*

Her eyes drifted closed and she could imagine him surrounded in a darkness, overwhelmingly black, a cloud of ink and hatred, yet… not so hateful. It was dark magic… unrelenting, and focused in that one place where she knew he was most vulnerable. But while Snape seemed consumed by it, he certainly did not fight it, but welcomed it. It was a part of him that he would not deny, and one that he would use to his advantage until his dying breath..

And while he spoke of it with an admiration that no one in the class was surprised to hear, she was likely the only one who didn't seem to abhor him for it. After all, there was a bit of darkness in everyone... it was how they used it that defined them.

"Your defenses must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse…" he gestured to the poster in question, then the next, "feel the Dementor's Kiss… or provoke the aggression of the Inferius—"*

"Has one been seen, then? Is it definite? Is he using them?"*

Hermione turned to gaze at Parvati. Everyone could detect the discomfort and fear in her voice.

"The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past," Snape answered boredly, "Which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again. Now…"*

He set off, robes billowing behind him. Hermione followed him with her eyes then, sensing a transition from speech to lesson.

"… you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of nonverbal spells. Tell me, what is the advantage of such magic?"

Hermione, of course, was the only one who raised her hand. Snape assured there were no others, then grudgingly indicated for her to answer.

"Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you're about to perform, which gives you a split-second advantage."*

"An answer copied almost word for word from _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six_ , but correct in essentials. Yes, those who progress in using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some"—he glanced pointedly and maliciously at Harry—"lack."*

Hermione glanced sideways at Harry, who was glowering at Snape until his black eyes eventually looked away.

"You will now divide into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other _without_ speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx _in equal silence_. Carry on."*

Hermione latched immediately onto Neville, who she knew would not push her past her limits, or drain her talismans before the class commenced. Ron and Harry, naturally, faced off against one another.

Many of her classmates were immediately determined to cheat, hoping Snape would not hear them mutter under their breaths. Hermione, however, knew the basics of nonverbal spells and had no need to whisper under her breath. Snape had ensured that she was introduced to the topic, early on. That being said, however, because she was paired with Neville, she did not want to be a show-off and didn't remove her talismans until absolutely necessary.

" _Petrificus Totalus!"_ Neville uttered loudly just as Snape passed behind him. Hermione easily stepped aside to avoid it, rather than waste her time using the shield. Neville flinched when Snape snarled at his back.

"Must I define the word _silently_ for you _,_ Longbottom?"

"N-no, sir."

"Then be _silent_."

Neville nodded, a breath away from whimpering.

Hermione watched the dark wizard stalk away, trying very hard not to fall into believing he truly meant what he said. He hadn't once looked at her when he spoke, leading her to believe that he wanted her to fall for.

"Why don't you try shielding from me, Neville? It's easier, I think."

"Everything's easy for you, Hermione," Neville said. There was no malice in the statement, and he smiled when he said it.

 _Bless Neville,_ she thought.

"Hey…" he said as they readied their wands (and she, her talismans, which she had finally palmed). His eyes darted to Snape, who was hovering with his back turned to them, "Before we go again, I wanted to apologize."

"For what, Neville?"

"Er, you know? For what happened at the ministry…"

"Oh," Hermione felt her face fall, knowing that Neville had seen… that he had seen what she'd done, "Let's not talk about that, Neville."

"If I had known, that taking your wand…"

"That had nothing to do with it."

"I'm still sorry, Hermione, that you had to—I mean, I know what it feels like, to be under one of the Unforgivables."

She fought the urge to correct him, to tell him that he had no idea what he was talking about. Silently, she willed the word and summoned the talisman's power, sending a jinx towards Neville. He yelped and shouted, " _Protego_!"

The shield barely blocked her viciously cast jinx. He stumbled back, falling flat on his bum. A few of the surrounding students snickered. Across the hall, Snape glowered, obviously displeased that Neville had spoken.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, rushing forward to help him up, "I didn't know it would be that forceful."

"Well done, Hermione," Neville said with a lopsided smile.

"Five points from Gryffindor," Snape muttered as he continued on, "And for your convenience, Longbottom—assuming you know how to read, that is."

He sent the definition of the word silent on the board. Hermione ignored him and his scowl in her direction, ushering Neville back to their place.

"I mean it, Hermione. I'm sorry."

"Don't bring it up, Neville," she insisted, "It wasn't your fault, or anyone's. Honestly, it was nothing."

"But it wasn't nothing, was it?"

" _Quiet_ ," she insisted toward the ruddy-cheeked boy, "You don't know what you're talking about, Neville."

"I never do, usually, but this time… I think I know a little," he replied genially, "And I do know that these sorts of things are easier to deal with when you have someone to talk to. Just so you know, I'm here."

"Thanks, but I'm fine," she turned her back to him, sickened that someone could already see right through her, "Or do I have to prove it again?"

Neville snorted, and relented, "Go easy on me, please."

"Never," she vowed, before she lifted her wand again, neatly repelling the jinx he sent her way.

Unfortunately, however, another pair was inciting Snape's wrath. Naturally, it was Ron and Harry—

"Pathetic, Weasley! Here—let me show you—"*

Hermione and Neville watched in horror as Snape turned is wand on Harry. Hermione knew how fast Snape was, but she saw instantly that Harry was nearly as fast and cringed when he lifted his wand. All thought of nonverbal spells had left him and Harry then yelled, " _Protego!_ "*

The Charm was strong and Snape was sent off-balance, hitting a desk. Everyone stopped what they were doing and watched as Snape straightened, a scowl curling over his mouth instantly.

"Do you remember me telling you we are practicing _nonverbal_ spells, Potter?"*

"Yes," Harry answered stiffly.*

"Yes, _sir_."*

"There's no need to call me 'sir', Professor."*

"Oh, Harry, why?" Hermione gasped, putting her face in her hands, hating the gleeful looks on the faces of Ron, Seamus, and Dean.

"Detention, Saturday night, my office," said Snape coldly, "I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter… not even ' _the Chosen One_ '."*

"That was brilliant, Harry!"* Ron exclaimed when class was over and they were safely in the corridor, out of earshot (or so the others might have assumed).

Hermione, however, knew better, and was not so amused. She hissed at Harry, "You really shouldn't have said it. What made you?"*

"He tried to jinx me, in case you didn't notice! I had enough of that during Occlumency lessons—"*

"Well, maybe if you could follow directions, he wouldn't have to try and make an example of you," Hermione warned.

Harry rounded on her, furious, "Why doesn't he use another guinea pig for a change? What's Dumbledore playing at, anyway, letting him teach Defense? Did you hear him talking about the Dark Arts! He loves them! All that unfixed, indestructible stuff—"*

"Well, I thought he sounded a bit like you."*

"Like _me_?"*

"Yes, when you told us about what it's like to face Voldemort. You said it wasn't just memorizing a bunch of spells, you said it was just you and your brains and your guts— well, wasn't that exactly what Professor Snape was saying? That it really comes down to being brave and quick-thinking?"*

Harry just looked at her, stunned that he would ever think to compare him to Snape, let alone that anything Snape had said could ever have equated to being "brave".

Honestly, however, they were more alike than they would ever admit to themselves or anyone else—thickheaded being the main shared attribute.

Harry didn't have the option of replying, as he was drawn aside by a boy, who gave him a scroll.

"What is it?" Hermione asked when he eventually returned. He had hardly acknowledged the messenger as he was so involved with the parchment, leaving the poor boy midsentence.

When he was finished, Harry passed the note to them. Hermione recognized Dumbledore's script from the messages he had sent her this summer.

"This Saturday? But you have..."

"Snape's not going to be pleased! I won't be able to do his detention."*

Hermione sent him a wary look, knowing that that was hardly something to be proud of. If anything, the ex-potions master would use that as an excuse to make Harry's detention (which he would undoubtedly reschedule) that much more awful for her friend.

She half-heartedly participated in their speculations about Dumbledore's meeting, but, inwardly, was distracted with preparing for their upcoming Potions lesson.

Eventually, she left the boys for Arithmancy. It passed quickly, far too quickly. By the time she returned to them, they needed help with Snape's ever-complicated assignment (thrilling, actually, but she knew such an admiration would be lost on Ronald and Harry). By the time they were finished, the break was over, and they hurried down to the dungeons.

Slughorn proved to be as pretentious as she suspected he would be as a teacher. He greeted Harry too enthusiastically for Hermione's liking. He beamed at her when he saw her, then sought out Zabini, next. Naturally, they were the most famous of the students in attendance, Harry being the Boy-Who-Lived, and Blaise being heir to the notorious Madame Zabini's ever-growing fortunes. And he knew of her because of her presence at Hogwarts, the first student assistant in centuries.

As she pondered their new teacher's curious nature, she took a moment to sniff at the various smokes and vapors that already filled the dungeon. Her eyes trailed over the various cauldrons that were bubbling, before they drifted towards the shelves, newly organized. She found herself annoyed that Slughorn had taken the liberty to change so much about the dungeon… of course, it was much cozier than Snape had made it, but what was the point? It was a potions lab, not a sitting room.

Ron and Harry led her to sit nearest a gold cauldron. As Hermione leant forward to set up her quill and parchment, she paused. The scent that came from it was… seductive, to say the least. It smelt familiar, almost, and was definitely something she would like to smell on a daily basis.

First, there was the hint of new parchment opened in her lap, revealing an overpowering scent as she did so. She could remember many afternoons leaning into a new roll, inhaling the woody, fresh scent and feeling great happiness as she dipped her quill into ink to write across its perfect surface.

Quickly afterward, the smell of parchment was followed by freshly mown grass. It smelt exactly how her father used to smell when he'd returned home from golfing on Saturday afternoons and would tug her up from her reading nook to give her a hug and drag her off to supper.

Finally, there was something else, something that made her turn suddenly, eyes searching over the heads of her classmates for his presence… when they could not find him, instinctively, her ears searched for the sound of his steps, and her body ached for the imperceptible feel of his dark eyes upon her. But that was silly—there was no sign that he had returned to his old room, and why would he? He had his own classes to attend to.

Befuddled, she turned back to the cauldron, eyes half-lidded, mouth slack. In her mind's eye, she could see the blanket which she slept with every night, which cocooned her in an unnatural warmth and single-handedly preserved her sanity in those dark hours where she was completely alone. Even after months, it still smelt like him—and that smell, associated with the warmth of the emerald blanket, left her with a feeling like she was surrounded by something other than darkness, than hopelessness.

And it was all there, in the vapors…

 _Bergamot and clove, hints of patchouli; the slightest tinge of copper and iron, earth and smoke._

"What is that fantastic smell?"* Ron muttered.

When she turned, she saw Harry was grinning at the redhead dumbly. Surely they didn't smell the same things that she did?

 _If Harry only knew what that smell was…_

She giggled to herself, prompting Ron to grin stupidly at her.

"Now then, now then, now then…" Slughorn greeted them. The spell was broken, mostly, although many of the class remained in good spirits, "Scales out, everyone, and potions kits, and don't forget your copies of _Advanced Potion Making…_ "*

Harry took a moment to explain that he didn't have any supplies, and neither did Ron. Once they were all settled, Slughorn began his lecture, "I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of things you ought to be able to make after completing your NEWTs. You ought to have heard of 'em, even if you haven't made 'em yet. Can anyone tell me what this one is?"*

Naturally, Hermione was the first to raise her hand. Even in her dazed state, she was more attentive than the rest.

"Miss Granger?"

"It's Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth."*

"Very good, very good!" Slughorn seemed very happy with her textbook answer, quite the opposite of his predecessor, "Now, this one here is well-known. Who can—?"*

Hermione once again answered before the rest, "It's Polyjuice Potion, sir."*

"Excellent, excellent! Now, this one here…"*

No one had an answer. Hermione found herself hesitating, not knowing what she would do if the answer were true. If it was what she thought it was…

"No one?"

She raised her hand, too curious to be afraid of the answer.

"Yes, my dear?"*

"It's Amortentia, isn't it?"

"It is indeed. I can see why Madam Pomfrey was so keen in selecting you for her assistant…"

The class murmured at this revelation, but Hermione did not resent them for it. She was too involved in her own thoughts. The truth of the potions' identity hit her less violently than she thought it would...

For a moment, she waited, expecting for her body to heave, for her mind to collapse, for the world to turn on its side… but instead, she breathed normally, her heart beat evenly. It was hardly a surprise.

But shouldn't it have been?

"It seems almost foolish to add," Slughorn looked at her with a hardly hidden impressed expression, "but I assume you know what it does?"*

"It's the most powerful love potion in the world,"* she said evenly.

"Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?"*

"And the steam rising in characteristic spirals," Hermione murmured enthusiastically, "and it's supposed to smell differently to each of us, according to what attracts us, and I can smell freshly mowed grass, and new parchment, and—"*

She nearly forgot herself, and trailed off as her cheeks turned pink. Although unlikely anyone else would know Snape's smell so distinctively, it was stupid to risk it. It wasn't exactly something she wanted anyone to know, let alone Harry, among them.

"Miss Granger… Granger. Granger! Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?"*

"No, I don't think so, sir. As I told you this summer, I'm Muggle-born."

His eyes danced from her to Harry, then back to her, then back to Harry.

"Oho! ' _One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she's the best in our year!'_ I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?"

"Yes, sir," answered Harry.

Hermione sent him a look of appreciation, once again overwhelmed with her love for him. If only she could tell him her secret…

Well, one of them. It proved that she had many worth keeping from him. Being amorously attracted to Snape at the top of the list, currently.

"Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger," said Slughorn with a genial smile.

That did not please Malfoy, who looked as he had when she had once punched him in the face in third year. When Slughorn drifted away, she leaned towards Harry.

"Did you really tell him that, Harry?"*

"Well, what's so impressive about that?" Ron whispered, "You _are_ the best in the year—I'd've told him so if he asked me!"*

Hermione felt a warmth inside of her, glad to be praised by her two greatest friends, before the feeling suddenly sunk… while their praise was mighty, could she ever hope to live up to it, again?

"Amortentia doesn't really create _love_ , of course. It is impossible to manufacture. No, this draught will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in the room," he nodded to the skeptic faces of Malfoy and Nott, "When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love… And now, it is time for us to work."*

Of course, someone eventually brought up the next cauldron, curious of its contents, as Slughorn had purposely seemed to refrain from introducing it.

"Oho," Slughorn exclaimed, proving to them that this would be the phrase he would be known for, "Yes. That. _That_ is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?"*

"It's liquid luck," she said with fervor, "It makes you lucky."*

The whole class sat up straighter, extremely interest. Malfoy, even, was giving Slughorn his undivided attention.

"Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it's a funny little potion… Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong. However, when brewed correctly, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed, until the effects wear off, that is."*

He went on to explain the downfalls of such a potion—when taken in excess, the potion caused overconfidence of a dangerous degree, and was highly toxic. He explained his own experiences with Felix, two doses which resulted in two perfect days.

"And that," he gestured to the potion, a dreamy, excited look in his eyes, "is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson."*

There was silence as the class digested such a generous offer… Hermione and Harry shared a look. The dark-haired boy suddenly glanced behind him, in Malfoy's direction.

"Enough for twelve hours luck… from dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt. Now, I must warn you, it is banned in organized competitions—sporting events, the like. So the winner may only use it on an ordinary day and watch how that ordinary day becomes extraordinary."

He gazed out over them with a quirky smile, "The person who does best will win little Felix here. Off you go!"*

Hermione immediately turned to the page in Advanced Potion-Making that Slughorn prompted them to head to. The assignment was to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death, a notoriously complex concoction.

For a moment, she wondered if she would be able to attempt it at all, let alone make a decent batch. Given the stakes, however—while she did not carry as much hatred for Malfoy, she did know that liquid luck in the hands of any Slytherin could not be safe for her, especially—and considering Ron and Harry's dismal potions abilities, it was up to her to ensure that at least one of them could win it.

With that in mind, the witch furiously set to work. She struggled to initiate the potion, something that half the room didn't even realize they were doing. For a long time, she sat, trying to ignite the magical properties of the ingredients as she tossed them into the liquid base… but it was only when she caught a whiff of the Amortentia that she actually succeeded.

Face flushed and feeling slightly self-conscious, she turned her back to the potion and set to work.

As she did so, she could feel her energy draining significantly. The Draught of Living Death was a picky potion… it required intense concentration and detail. She worked laboriously, slicing the sopophorus beans with as much care as possible. Of course, they were pesky little things, and they fought her, causing her to nearly cut herself. She was careful to slip on her gloves more tightly after that.

"Can I borrow your silver knife?"

Hermione didn't dare glance at Harry when he asked, only nodded furiously.

 _Oh, Harry, you're not even trying to follow the directions!_

She tossed him a look when she had a moment, and was surprised to see that his potion had turned lilac, whereas hers hadn't budged. She glanced back at hers, cursing as she realized she would have to cancel out her previous stirs and start over.

Eventually, she managed to return to her previous point. She glanced at Harry, and nearly gasped, "How are you doing that?"*

Harry looked at her. He was hardly breaking a sweat—she, however, could feel rivulets down her hot face. That, and the fumes were causing her hair to expand, growing ever unmanageable.

"Add a clockwise stir!"*

"No, the book says counterclockwise!"*She snapped, irritated that she had to double check once more.

Harry said nothing more, only shrugged in her direction and kept stirring—it was obviously some sort of fluke. He'd fudged the directions somehow and managed to fix it. She let out an exasperated sigh, desperate to catch up to him. If even Harry was farther along than her, how was Malfoy faring?

She glanced around once more. Ron's potion was dark as licorice… and Malfoy's, surprisingly, was not much darker than hers, but darker nonetheless. Shocked, she turned once more to her own potion, which was a pale gray, then to Harry's, which was paler than moonlight…

How was that even possible?

"And… time's up!" _Bloody hell, Hermione, you've failed!_ "Stop stirring, please!"*

She panted and wiped her forehead as Slughorn made his rounds, peering into cauldrons, sniffing, and stirring. As the seconds ticked on, she felt panic rising in her throat. At the very least, there was no way Malfoy's could beat her own, although it was close… but if Harry hadn't followed the recipe, his would surely be disqualified.

Eventually, Slughorn nodded approvingly at her potion, although she knew it was far from perfect. At spotting Harry's, however, his expression turned to ecstatic, "The clear winner!"

 _"What?"_ she muttered under her breath.

Harry, luckily, didn't hear her.

"Good lord; it's clear you've inherited your mother's talent. She was a dab at Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here you are—one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!"*

Ron, of course, was the first to ask Harry how he did it. Harry gave a shrug, given Malfoy's proximity. Hermione, however, was still processing what had happened.

How could she have lost... to Harry?

"Tell us," Ron insisted when they were seated for dinner.

"It's the book…" Harry said with excitement, pulling it out. He didn't let them peer inside, merely used it for reference, "The previous owner… he must have experimented with potions before. He's written in his own instructions overtop the old ones."*

"Harry, that was extremely dangerous. You have no idea how that potion could have turned out—"*

"It went rather well, though, didn't it?"*

Ron socked him in the arm, "Yeah, it did! Hey, you think you could share that luck with me for tryouts?"

Hermione, of course, interjected, "Didn't you hear Slughorn? That's illegal, Ronald!"

He shrugged sheepishly and he and Harry shared a look she didn't like one bit. Naturally, she huffed and crossed her arms.

Harry looked at her with disappointment and slight annoyance, "You think I cheated, don't you?"*

"Well, besides the fact that it was extremely foolish, it wasn't exactly your own work, was it?"*

"He only followed different instructions," Ron insisted, "He took a risk and it paid off. Slughorn could've handed me a book, but no—"*

"Hang on," someone said from behind them. Hermione saw Harry's face slacken and a look of realization cross over his face. He seemed to avoid Ginny's glance when she appeared, "Did I hear that right? You've been taking orders from a book, Harry?"*

"It's nothing. It's not like… er, Riddle's diary. It's just an old textbook that's been written in… I tried a few of the tips in the margins."*

"Ginny has a point, Harry," Hermione insisted, "We ought to check—"*

"Hey!" Harry said indignantly as she attempted to grab the text and succeeded.

" _Specialis Revelio!"*_ She said, without thinking, pressing her wand to the cover.

Suddenly, she felt a sinking realization. She had felt no magic… the spell wouldn't work, as her wand was still restricted.

 _But, of course, silly… not that it would have worked even if it wasn't. You're lucky you didn't harm yourself!_

"Finished?"* Harry said irritably, not realizing that the magic hadn't even enacted. No one did, not even Ginny, arguably the most perceptive of them.

Hermione panicked, "It seems alright. I mean, it really does seem to be…"*

"Just a textbook?" Harry insisted.*

She hesitated, but Harry took it as compliance.

"Good. I'll have it back then."* He snatched it away.

Hermione was too overwhelmed with a feeling she couldn't begin to explain to any of them, and threw her fork atop the food she had hardly touched.

Of course, she left everyone back at dinner. Knowing no one would follow her (it wasn't that uncharacteristic of her to storm off), she briefly considered going to the Room of Requirement. Instead, she headed for her dorm. Once she was inside, she carefully bypassed Lavender's mess and slid through her bed curtains. Sitting right on top of her pillow was the book—the one about the Song, just where she'd left it. And atop that was a piece of parchment, from Snape by the spidery hand-writing…

 _I trust you remember how to get there,_ was all it said.

It was an ominous reminder of their scheduled meeting tonight, at the Shrieking Shack, which she had, honestly, forgotten about.

Crookshanks then jumped onto the bed beside her, knocking her with his head. Tears gathered as she numbly pet him.

The note had made her suddenly realize that she had very poorly prepared for any sort of training that night—not only had she not eaten a proper meal in the past two days, but how could she expect to face him after failing so miserably today? How could she… how could she face him, ever again, knowing that she… for Merlin's sake, that she _fancied_ him—her teacher! If he ever found out about that, he would think her such a little fool.

"What am I to do, Crooks?"

He was silent and so she buried her face in the soft cloth of the blanket Snape had gifted her, inhaling the scent of him, letting it wash over her completely and drive away all of the guilt she was beginning to feel for keeping so many secrets. Lending her strength.

Eventually, when she could waste no more time, she wiped her tears and stood. Making sure no one was around, she called for Dobby.

"Miss Hermione?"

"Could you—oh!" Hermione smiled when the elf provided her with a carefully presented sandwich, filled to the brim with her favorite: roast turkey, "How did you know?"

"Dobby keeps a careful eye on Miss Hermione. It is what Master Snapes requested," Dobby murmured, "Even if Master Snapes has forgotten."

Hermione smiled at the elf, "Thank you."

The elf bowed to her and then to Crookshanks, then dismissed himself, leaving Hermione to head down the stairs, munching on the sandwich as she did so.

Crookshanks, the smart beast, seemed to sense that she would need him to get past the Whomping Willow, and followed dutifully at her heels.

"'Mione! Where are you off to?" Ron called to her. Lavender was perched on the arm of his chair. Harry didn't even look up from his Advanced Potion-Making book.

"I'm taking Crooks for a walk," she muttered, pulling her jacket tightly around her as she wiped mustard off with her sleeve.

"Let the bloody cat go off by himself, 'Mione," Ron muttered, "He's perfectly capable."

"I want to go on a walk, Ronald," she told him coldly, "Otherwise I wouldn't be doing it."

Although it hurt her to be so crass to him, she couldn't take it back. Even as she opened her mouth to apologize, Lavender sent her a scathing look.

Ron, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice. The redhead immediately dropped his chin to fiddle with the chess piece in front of him, hastily making a move that led to Seamus taking his queen.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, his friend forgotten.

And then she was gone through the portal, as Crooks vainly wound in between her legs as she inhaled the sandwich, determined to keep her misery from her professor.

·

While he was not much of an outdoorsman, Severus knew the benefit of fresh air and took the opportunity to welcome it as he exited the castle. The night was clear and crisp, refreshing after being cooped up in his classroom all day. As he briskly departed, he breathed in the cool air through his nose and relished the icy breeze upon his face.

It would be a long walk to Hogsmeade from the grounds, but he would rather be caught kissing a hippogriff than travel through that bloody tunnel ever again in his life. In truth, too, he was in need of some exercise… and a long moment for thinking without the castle walls clouding his mind.

It had, after all, been a taxing day, and it felt good to feel somewhat less trapped.

As troublesome as his students had been, some as equally as resistant to his 'promotion' as Potter was, he had managed to survive his first day of teaching Defense—and without murdering anyone, even. But while that alone was a success in itself, he had been in too foul a mood at the end of the day to make it to dinner after his last lesson, and instead chose to focus on prepping for a new batch of Miss Granger's potions.

Of course, Albus had sent for him through the founder's ring halfway through the hour, but he had ignored it. As if it mattered… what would the man do? Give him a corrective action?

He snorted. Severus could receive a thousand corrective actions and he would still be stuck in this castle, likely until his death, or the dark lord's, if that time ever came. Dumbledore would likely never let him go, unless it was truly necessary…

Unfortunately, the former potions master was unsure when that time would come. Likely sooner rather than later, given the headmaster's ailing health.

By the time he arrived at the house, as run down and decrepit as he remembered and as depressing a sight for him as it would always be, night had begun to fall. He detected no sign of Miss Granger, and took that opportunity to make certain the house had not been compromised.

There were various enchantments put in place by Albus, still as strong as the day he had created them. None of them had been tampered with, nor broken… when he was completely certain no one had lain a trap for him—or anyone—he began to ward it against all other entry, against pests, ensuring it would be safe for he and Miss Granger. Dumbledore had assured none of the Order members would patrol it on the nights where he would be using it, so he was not worried about that…

Still, he was paranoid by nature. Many of the spells he decided to cast required great amounts of magic, but they would be necessary, if this would be their place of meeting for the rest of the year. Being away from the castle wasn't exactly ideal, but he wanted their interactions to be entirely secret: from Minerva…

From Potter, the nosy brat.

By the time he was just finished casting the last of the wards, he could feel the girl entering from the tunnel. Naturally, he lifted his wand, a stunner at the ready—just in case.

Miss Granger appeared, as he had felt she would, looking harried. She was dirty from traveling the tunnel, which was tight and cramped in many places. Her hair, in particular, was a right mess, frizzier than he'd seen it in a while, threaded with leaves. From the look of her face, red and frowning, she'd been running. Why, he did not really care, as he was too busy making sure he wasn't going to hex her in the chest.

Before he could lower his wand, however, a ball of fluff flew from between her legs towards him—

Naturally alarmed, he re-lifted his wand, a stunner in his mind.

She threw herself so quickly in front of him so that she lost her balance, choosing to latch onto his wand to steady herself—or rather, to prevent him from stunning the feline that was now glaring at him from atop a moth-eaten chair.

The witch was lucky he cut the spell off, otherwise she'd have burnt her hands on the wand. The half-kneazle was lucky for her, as he might have been stunned to oblivion had she not intervened.

"Please don't hurt him… Crooks was just trying… to protect me."

 _Crooks_? _This ugly thing is her familiar?_

The cat in question flicked his tail back and forth, smugly watching Snape from his throne.

"I doubt a cat could protect you from someone who truly meant you harm, Miss Granger."

She laughed with a glance towards the cat—Crooks—"You'd be… surprised."

The girl in question gathered herself as she spoke heavily and let go of his wand, but she was still leaning off balance towards him. Stunned, he peered down at her, as she had all but collapsed against him, breathing deeply. It was almost as if she was… inhaling?

Was she having an asthma attack? Or…

"Are you suffering an episode?"

"What? No! I mean… sorry. No, sir," she breathed, managing to straighten but still remaining very close to him, "I underestimated… how… long the tunnel was. I seem to have… I'm just a little out of breath. I was trying not to be late."

"A vain effort, apparently."

She lifted her gaze, admonished, but boldly searching his for a moment, appearing rather bemused by her admission. Her cheeks turned even pinker when he drew his eyes carefully over her face, analyzing the expression she was clearly putting on for his benefit.

 _What is she hiding?_

Eventually, he noticed it… the redness of her eyes and the sore look of her lip, which she must have bitten several times, was the tell, "You've been crying."

The change was almost immediate. It seemed she realized that trying to hide something from him proved futile, as her face instantly crumpled at his matter-of-fact observation. The pretty if slightly haggard looking witch glanced immediately away, hiding those liquid amber eyes from him, once more.

For a moment, he considered scolding her, for allowing her emotions to get the better of her and for submitting to his will so easily… or simply so he could see her eyes again.

"Ready, then?" she suddenly said, having gathered her breath now, yet still refusing to meet his gaze.

He considered trying to force her to look at him, so that he could tear down the defenses she'd foolishly lifted to hide her thoughts. Instead, however, he sensed that she was in need of a more physical distraction. Who was he to deny her that, when he was craving it himself?

His wand was already in his hand and he brandished it defensively, "The question is, Miss Granger… are you?"

She seemed to be battling a war within herself before she finally did look up at him. There was a coldness in her eyes: a mask of determination. It both excited and despaired him… she'd begun to learn at least _something_ from him, but at the same time, he felt a divide growing between them… not necessarily one constructed by her willfully, but one that had grown as she had grown her abilities in the mind arts.

He found he did not like not knowing what she was thinking, or how she was feeling. It made him feel at a disadvantage…

Self-conscious, even.

"Whether I am ready, or not," she murmured, "I have little choice, don't I?"

He was silent, sensing that she had just undergone a great change within herself. His only reply was a nod, one that he hoped she would take as a sign of his utmost respect.

There was no time to analyze how she had interpreted the gesture. Before he knew it, she had brandished her wand and silently sent a jinx towards him. He dodged it, easily, but was forced to deflect the next.

As they slowly danced around one another, he on the defensive and she on the clear offensive, her eyes were alight with a fury he had heard she possessed in battle, but had never seen from her with his own eyes. There was no time to admire the beauty of them, however, as he was forced to shield himself, once more, twice, then thrice. Before long, he was breaking a sweat, overwhelmed with her sudden aggressive attack.

Had the witch access to even twice the magic she had now, he would surely be in trouble. Luckily for him, however, she had not yet surpassed him. Minutes later, when he knocked her on her bum, having caught her in between two furious spells, she seemed to crumple for a moment. It was only a second, however, then she quickly gained her footing and struck even fiercer than she had before.

Amused, he let himself slip into the Divide fully, mind and body intent only on the dance laid out between them. He found peace in it, of course, and forgot all about the shite day that now seemed so far behind him.

·

An hour later, Hermione traveled back to the castle the way she came. It was far too risky for her to follow along beside Snape, but she wasn't saddened when they parted in opposite directions, despite being intent for the same building. It spoke volumes that he trusted her enough to go off on her own (well, with Crookshanks as her chaperone), even after their arduous battle.

Surprisingly, she managed to avoid getting caught as she entered the castle. Not that it mattered—she was a prefect, after all, and curfew wasn't for another ten minutes, yet.

Still, she felt a rush of adrenaline as she slipped into the portal at the chime of the clock. Perhaps it was leftover from the physical exercise, but she felt much better than she had all day, full of a calmness she hadn't thought possible after all the drama with Harry.

Or perhaps it was the product of the company she'd held…

Remembering the Amortentia, she felt her cheeks burn. Of course, she'd tried to avoid looking at Snape all night long, knowing that if he learned of such a thing he would only criticize her…

 _Wouldn't he?_

Or was he so starved of love that he would welcome any affection, so long as it was true?

The thought made her feel slightly sick to her stomach. Of course, Hermione didn't want him to settle for her, simply because she was the only one who had enough insight to see who he truly was beneath his cold exterior. She didn't want anything to come of it, at all… right?

Truly, she might die of embarrassment should anyone, even Snape, ever find out. But another part of her felt disappointed that she was not older, that they had not met under different circumstances… in a different life, would they have had a grand romance?

In a different life, could he have ever loved her back?

 _Love, Hermione? Are you daft?_

"Where've you been?"

Hermione nearly jumped out of her shoes, and resisted the urge to use the knock-back-jinx talisman she'd been clutching in her hand since leaving the tunnel. Snape's paranoia was rubbing off on her, of course.

"Harry!" she pressed the talisman to her heart, hiding it from the keen green eyes that were fixed upon her face, "You startled me!"

The Boy Who Lived quirked a brow. He had, after all, been perched in an arm-chair facing the portal, clearly in her view. Around him, a few night owls were strewn about the Common Room, but they were all a good distance away from them. She chose to lean on the sofa across from him, shirking her jacket off of her shoulders.

"Why are you all sweaty?"

"I lost track of time," Hermione explained, "I had to rush back."

"Where were you?"

"I was taking a walk."

"Oh."

Silence fell between them, and she found herself feeling slightly saddened. There was so much friendship here, along with so much trust. They had been through a lot together, she and Harry and Ron. Would this secret end up tearing them apart?

 _It doesn't matter. You're doing this to protect him… if Voldemort knew, he would use you to hurt Harry._

"Hey, did you finish Slughorn's assignment, perchance?"

Surprisingly, actually, she had forgotten, but before she could answer she yawned loudly.

"Sorry," she blushed, "I'll have to work on it in the morning, I think. I'll help you during free period, alright?"

Harry only nodded, "Good night, then, Hermione."

"Good night, Harry."

As she ascended the stairs, she imagined that it hadn't been such a terrible day after all. She was alive, wasn't she? And so was Harry... and Snape.

Her heart beat a little faster in her chest as she thought of what he was doing, at that moment, floors below her. Was he attempting to sleep, or would he throw himself into more work? Was he brewing? Inflecting? Drinking? Dreaming?

 _One thing is certain,_ the bitter version of herself said, _he isn't thinking about you._

She fell into her bed and buried her face in the emerald blanket. Although exhausted, she found she could not sleep, and instead wondered what in the world she was going to do about her traitorous heart.


	24. Panic

**A/N: Happy almost New YEAR!**

·

Chapter _23_  
 _Panic_

·

Ronald found out very quickly that their free-periods were not exactly free. There was so much homework that the sixth years spent most of their time huddled in groups in the library rather than lounging in the Common Room. Hermione, personally, was glad for all of the written work… after all, it was the practical application where she would fall short.

Harry, naturally, was just as swamped as the rest of them: except where it concerned potions. He continued to use the book—the one that had belonged to someone named the "Half-Blood Prince". Hermione, out of principle, used the "official" directions provided in her copy of _Advanced Potions Making_ … and she might have been able to do better than her friend, too, were she not using all of her energy to simply _ignite_ the potion to begin with.

Not only that, but she'd caught Harry muttering incantations under his breath that even she had never heard of. Whoever this person had been ("it might have been a girl", Hermione had insisted), they had dabbled in spell-creation, as well as tampered with potions recipes. Harry didn't seem to think that either of these practices were dangerous, especially in the hands of a minor, or, rather he didn't seem to care, but she knew better. They argued about it constantly, but Harry was stubborn as ever to keep it.

 _Perhaps you should tell Snape about it,_ she thought to herself, not for the first time.

But Harry glanced at his watch, once again brushing off her warning as her being a stick in the mud, "It's five to eight. I'd better go, I'll be late for Dumbledore."*

"Ooooh," Hermione gasped, remembering, "Good luck! We'll wait up, we want to hear what he teaches you!"*she thought better of it, and added, "Well, Ron will wait up… I have to check-in with Madam Pomfrey."

But Harry had already hurried out of the portal, the cursed book tucked safely into his bag.

After the portal closed, Ron glanced sidelong at her, "Want some company on the way to the Hospital Wing?"

"I'll be fine," she was halfway through with packing all of her things away, "I might not be long, you know."

The redhead frowned, unconvinced. After all, her last "check-in", she'd been gone for hours.

The golden witch watched her ginger friend closely for a moment. To make up for lying to him, she conveniently left her essay on _The Principles of Rematerialization_ behind, "See you in a while."

He grunted in response, prompting her to roll her eyes.

By the time she entered the Shrieking Shack with Crooks at her heels, Snape had not yet arrived.

Her amber eyes surveyed the sitting room with ruffled disdain; Wwile there were no sign that pests still lived and breathed within the walls, there were remains of them from before: the floor was damaged beyond repair beneath piles of junk and muck, and there were holes where something had scratched and scratched and scratched until the foundation was revealed through the paneled floor. Not only that, but the walls were grubby and stained, and every piece of furniture was damaged in some way, if not completely collapsed…

"We must do something about this place," she told Crookshanks with a wrinkle of her nose, hands on her hips. A movement, or perhaps a feeling, sent her turning, just as Snape slid into view from the shadows.

"I quite agree, Miss Granger," a deep voice caressed the air between them.

A small smile crossed her lips when she found him frowning at her, obviously displeased that he hadn't been able to sneak up on her this time.

"I didn't think you minded, sir."

His dark eyes trailed down at the half-kneazle, who dared to approach him with a flicking tail and a soft mewl.

"Oh, I don't, not really," he answered coldly, lifting his gaze from the cat's to hers, a wickedness gleaming within them, "It's not my living space, after all… why waste the energy?"

Amber eyes narrowed to black, "Then why—"

His mouth quirked on one side, forming that reserved smile of his, the one she was finding herself more and more fond of… except when it was paired with that dastardly glitter in his eyes, "Because, Miss Granger, I believe cleaning this dump will prove to be perfect practice for you to strengthen your magic."

Her smile instantly disappeared. It wasn't as if she hadn't already spent an entire summer cleaning Number 12 Grimmauld Place from top to bottom, now she had to scrub _this_ place?

 _At least you can do it with magic…_

"And if you find you are unable to master the spells, then… I suppose you do know how to use a mop—or a toothbrush?"

"Let me guess: you won't be helping me, either?"

"No," he answered, sliding into a conjured chair with a Potions journal in hand, "I am merely here to make sure you don't overexert yourself."

She cursed Harry under her breath, then glanced around her; she would need to get all of the rubble out of the way before she could scrub the floors. Pretending that Snape was not there, she headed over to the nearest pile of… gods, she didn't even want to know what it was. There were bits of broken wood, muck that she imagined was mud or, worse, dung, and moth-eaten curtains that someone had removed and tossed atop the pile as if it could hide it from view.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

The magic fizzled in her hand, her heart, but did not _sing_.She cursed vividly, tired of always failing at the first try. Couldn't there just be one thing that she could do without having to spend days of her life attempting to do them?

Undeterred, the young witch furrowed her brow and tried again, this time causing the shard to quiver for a few moments. By the time she'd managed to lift it, she was too focused on holding the spell to see the grim expression that crossed her professor's face.

·

Hermione had never known such exhaustion until the weeks that followed had gruellingly passed. Naturally, after using magic after weeks of tiptoeing around it, she awoke the following morning—and every subsequent Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday morning—feeling as if she'd been stomped on by Grawp. By the time the third week was in full swing, she felt miserable _every_ morning, as her duties had begun to pile on top of one another.

She'd begun to truly assist Madam Pomfrey, and was called away frequently, even during class-time. This posed a bigger problem, as the more lectures she missed, the more work she was forced to make up. And it didn't help that her Hogwarts courses had only increased exponentially in difficulty, or that the boys still looked to her to act as their personal tutor. Between helping them with their own essays, making her prefect rounds, and training with Snape, she had very little free-time to devote to her personal research.

Still, on the day the Gryffindor quidditch try-outs arrived, she found herself putting everything else aside... well, most of it. She'd been up all night after Dobby warned her that Snape had left the castle—and he'd only returned three hours before she was to be awake, causing her to sleep past her alarm and rush through her routine. Because she was losing hours of studying, she tried to cram in a few paragraphs on her essay as she headed down to breakfast.

Luckily, she had long-since given up tending to her hair in the mornings, settling for a messy bun. No one was surprised when she arrived at the breakfast table looking like a zombie, ink dotting her fingers and sleeves and, somehow, her cheek. Not that anyone was looking at her, after all.

By the time she reached the house table, she put away her things and settled beside the boys. While she didn't particularly care for the sport or understand the fuss, Harry was as nervous as she'd ever seen him. Ron looked sick to his stomach.

She tried to explain to them both that they would do fine, and that the influx in applicants had little to do with interest or talent in Quidditch, and more to do with interest in Harry, which boosted Ron's chances immensely. When both Ron and he looked at her with blank expressions, she sighed and explained that so many were signed up to attempt the trials because Harry was now proven to have been telling the truth, and was being lauded as the Chosen One. Not to mention he'd gotten taller over the summer.

"I'm tall,"* Ron argued.

She was trying to figure out what he meant by that, but the post had arrived. To her delight, Harry and Ron both received the copies of _Advanced Potions Making_ that they'd mail-ordered.

To her dismay, Harry proved he had absolutely no intention of giving up the book he'd found.

" _Diffindo,_ "* he said, causing her to cringe, remembering the last time she'd heard such a spell. He repeated the incantation, severing the cover from the second book.

In seconds, he'd swapped them, so that the Prince's book had the brand-new cover.

" _Reparo!"_ the fix was permanent, "I'll give Slughorn back the new one. He can't complain, it cost nine galleons."*

Hermione pressed her lips together and glanced towards the Head Table. Snape, however, was not there, not that she expected him to be. And neither was Dumbledore, either, the only other wizard who might be able to talk some sense into Harry.

 _Perhaps he had been with the Order last night, rather than the Death Eaters?_

 _Fat chance, that._

She sighed and dove into the Daily Prophet.

"Anybody we know dead?"*

Hermione bit her tongue, hating how casual Ron could ask such a question… then again, he asked it every day, now. And sometimes, unfortunately, the answer was yes. The war was now in full-swing, and if people weren't dying, then they were disappearing—which was as good as dead.

"No," she said with relief, glad not to have to think about Snape and killing, "but there have been dementor attacks, and an arrest."*

"Excellent, who?"*

"Stan Shunpike."*

"What?"*

Harry hovered her shoulder as she read from the article, which painted Shunpike as a Death Eater. He insisted it was a mistake, "No way!"*

"He might have been put under the Imperius Curse," said Ron, before he suddenly turned red and glanced at Hermione, "Er, sorry."

She sent him a puzzled look, "What for?"

"Er, you know…" he dropped his head.

"Oh," she answered, glancing towards Neville. Was that the story that had been told? That she'd been Imperius'd to cut herself in half?

 _It's rather more believable than thinking you did it of your own accord._

"You can never tell," Ron added, as if trying to avoid the subject.

"I don't know what they're playing at, taking Stan seriously."*

"They probably want to look as if they're doing something. People are terrified—you know the Patil twins' parents want them to go home? And Eloise Midgen has already been withdrawn. Her father picked her up last night."*

"What! But Hogwarts is safer than their homes, bound to be! We've got Aurrors, and all those extra protective spells, and we've got Dumbledore!"*

Hermione glanced at the Head Table, but the two most powerful wizards were still absent…

"I don't think we've got him all the time,"* she reminded them.

Harry followed her gaze.

"I think he's left the school to do something with the Order," she said assuredly, "I mean… it's all looking serious, isn't it?"*

They were all thinking about Hannah Abbott, whose mother had been found dead the day before. Hannah hadn't been seen since. And she wasn't the only one who'd left the Great Hall in tears… quite a few Hogwarts students were told that family members had perished or were missing. Each of them dreaded the day that one of their Heads of Houses would pull them aside to tell them that one of their relatives was gone.

She could only pray that the Order could do more than the ministry was, and that was why Dumbledore was not seen. As for Snape's absences, of which Dobby informed her of every one—five since term began, including the one last night—she tried not to think too much about it and their possible correlation to the tragedies spoken of in the papers.

Eventually, breakfast ended and she had to corral Ron and Harry toward the pitch. They were both nervous wrecks, Ron more so than Harry. Her attempts to comfort him failed, and so she let him alone. As they passed a distressed Parvati and Lavender, however, the former nudged the latter toward Ron, and Lavender beamed at the redhead. With a blown kiss, she wished him luck. After that, Ron seemed to walk more confidently… well, overconfidently, causing Hermione to want to roll her eyes and gag. Still, she felt a twinge of disappointment that she couldn't have inspired a confidence in him, even though she was his friend and knew him best. But mild annoyance was the only emotion she felt.

Once upon a time, she would have grown extremely jealous to see his tongue wagging after Lavender, but after the Amortentia—well, the truth had solidified for her that she felt nothing for Ron in way of romance, as she had thought she might have for so many years. If only it could have made her feel less confused, in general…

She pushed Snape out of her mind, determined to focus on quidditch, for the boys' sake.

The trials were, at the very least, amusing to watch. Harry managed to weed through the nonessentials during the basic flying drill: those who had come without brooms and those in other houses were the most obvious cuts and were sent off to join her in the stands. A few who had brought brooms yet were not there for the reasons they should have been only managed to embarrass themselves, and were swiftly eliminated.

Naturally, Harry retained his position of seeker, being captain. He had a good eye for the chasers: Alicia, Demelza Robins, and Ginny all earned their spots, in Hermione's opinion. The beaters were more difficult to select. None compared to Fred and George, and while Hermione would have made different choices than Harry, he knew much more than she did about Quidditch.

As expected, Keepers were tested last. Hermione tried not to cringe when Cormac McClaggen, a boy who had been staring at her or griping about Harry's supposed nepotism after he'd chosen Ginny as seeker the entire time he was not flying, took to the air with grace that she did not expect from someone of his size. He was a broad-chested youth, characteristically handsome with flashing white teeth and blonde hair. Ron seemed to dislike him from the start, just by looking at him, and waited impatiently on his own on the sidelines, face tinged green.

Hermione, however, had overheard the way he spoke about the Weasleys many a time. She thought he was a brute and a jock and instantly wished he would make as much a fool of himself on his broom as he had with his mouth.

Unfortunately, her wishes did not come true. She watched as McClaggen did better than all the prospective Keepers before him… he saved the third shot, one more than any of the others, which put him in the lead to be selected.

"Damn," she muttered, noting Ron's face growing ever greener.

She felt for her wand, then remembered—how was she to do anything for him, without magic? She had a Confundus talisman, which would be the most helpful in this situation, but should she use it for something this trivial? What if something happened later, and she would need it? Snape wouldn't be able to recharge it in time—and he would ask her why she had used it and likely be unhappy with her. Perhaps even reprimand her for cheating.

A part of her withered when she watched, in horror, as Cormac saved the fourth shot.

 _Think, Hermione… think!_

She glanced around, eyes searching, hoping for a spark of inspiration. Unfortunately, she panicked for far too long, and Ginny was now shooting off like a bullet. After a few evasive maneuvers, obviously attempting to distract the large McClaggen, she made her shot. Hermione took a sharp breath, leaning forward, eyes closed—

"To hell with it."

Knowing she would not be caught with her wand, at least, she used the _Confundus._

When she opened her eyes, Cormac was scowling. He'd missed. Rather violently, apparently, according to those around her. His broom had bucked at the most inopportune moment, or he'd gone the complete opposite direction.

Naturally, this gave Ron the confidence he needed to succeed in blocking not four, but all five goals. Hermione found herself cheering with the rest of them, overjoyed with his success, but also a bit concerned, inwardly, that she might have been wrong to sabotage McClaggen. As she began to exit the stands to congratulate Ron, she felt a sudden boding sense of despair. She paused, and Lavender and Parvati managed to push past her, congratulating the boy with cheers and blown kisses.

Ron grinned at them stupidly, ears red, even after they began to walk away.

 _You're being stupid, Hermione._

"I thought I was going to miss that fourth penalty," Ron said, but she drowned out his voice as she slipped into the Divide, trying to gather her breath and prevent the darkness from eating away at her. It was a feeling she'd never felt before, at least, not so pervasively. One that was like a haunting, a curse, that was pulling at the frayed edges of her every moment—

 _Guilt. It's guilt.. or is it..._

 _Hermione… you idiot! Did you take your potions this morning?_

She tore through her memories, trying, vainly to recall if she had. That morning, she'd awoken, groggy from the night before… she'd stayed up all night, waiting for Snape to return after being summoned—

And when she'd finally fallen asleep, it felt like an instant later she'd woken, and she'd rushed out of her bed. She'd… forgotten to take her potions in the process. Having been so preoccupied with trying to cram in some time on her essays before breakfast, she hadn't even showered. And the potions that were carefully tucked into her toiletry bag, away from sight, were not taken.

"I've got to go."

"Hermione! What about Hagrid—"

She fumbled for the sickle around her neck, "Madam Pomfrey's summoning me, sorry—tell him…" she huffed a breath, "Tell him, I'm really sorry, alright?"

They watched her, dumbfounded, as she began a full-out run toward the castle. She managed, somehow, to press her wand to the silver coin around her neck. Perhaps she could manage to make it in the Tower, in time, but… it was best not to leave such a thing to fate. While she didn't think missing the potion would be fatal, she didn't feel right… no, actually, she felt as if she might be having a panic attack… or worse! Was it happening again?

And what if Snape couldn't save her? What if—

She felt the sickle warm against her breast.

 _My office, now._

It was closer than the hospital wing. Stumbling, she was grateful that the halls were empty of students in this wing and found herself pulling open the door without knocking. The classroom was empty, but the door to his office was open. She hissed a curse when she ran into the nearest desk, then gasped.

Pain, hot, fiery, was pressing down on her lungs. It was almost as if she couldn't breathe— _gods_ , was it happening again?

She stopped running and lurched over the table, attempting to gather her wits before she was to face the potions master—ex-potions master. Beads of sweat began to gather at her the back of her neck, either from the reaction or because of the fact that she'd run from the grounds to here. White-hot pressure burned behind her eyes, blinding her…

And then, all of a sudden, there were cold hands, grasping her by the arms. She sobbed, desperate…

"You stupid girl," he growled at her.

"I-I don't w-want t-t-to die."

"You're not going to die," he muttered, almost amusedly.

She managed to open her eyes and looked up at him, offended. Through her gasps of breath, she attempted to tell him as such, but he merely placed a firm hand on each of her shoulders, pushing her into a seating position. He then pressed down on her neck, forcing her to drop her head.

"Breathe in through your nose, and out your mouth," he instructed, keeping his cold hand on her neck.

"Sir—"

"Granger, do what I say."

She breathed in… then out.

In.

Out.

In…

When she realized what had happened, she collapsed against her arms, which were folded on the desk in front of her and sobbed in embarrassment. Snape did not remove himself, but performed a diagnostic—not that he needed to. She and he both knew what had happened.

"Sir…"

"Quiet," he insisted calmly, summoning water as he led her up to his office, which was more private, "What did I say about overexerting yourself?"

"I know," she muttered, not realizing how tired and strung out she had felt until it had all spilled out around her—or rather, tightened into a ball of stress in her chest that had caused a panic attack, "I know."

"You do realize that this is the best possible scenario that could have happened?"

"Yes."

"And do you realize that if you do not take care of yourself, you _will_ suffer worse?"

She looked up, startled to hear a strained concern in his voice. When she found his eyes, they were guarded, but they were not cold. His face was hardened, as it ever was, but his mouth was frowning. His voice, however, gave him away.

A part of her softened, infinitely. She hadn't thought him capable of worry—especially not for her.

"I'm sorry."

"You will be sorry, if you carry on in such a way—not eating, not sleeping. Letting your emotions get the better of you. I warned you, Granger."

"I know."

"From now on, you should avoid high-stress events—such as Quidditch tryouts… Quidditch, in general."

She nodded.

"And speaking of such, I am excusing you from our… appointment, this evening."

"No!"

Snape quirked a brow down at her in warning.

"No, sir, I mean… wouldn't it be best, for me to keep—"

"No, it would not, Granger. You are too weak today, even you must admit that. And I don't believe you deserve to try, not since you have been so careless," he procured a triplet of small vials, the potions she'd missed. Did he know about the Confundus? Likely not... "I do not suggest skipping these again in the near future. They are not so essential to your recovery as they were in the beginning, but I do believe they help."

"They do," grateful, she took them, but she still stared at him.

"You may go, now," he said, when she had looked at him perhaps a bit too long.

"Er, sir, may I… may I stay here, actually?"

He stared at her, eyes narrowed.

"Until I… feel, er, better, that is."

"By all, means, Granger, if you have any doubt—but be warned, I will be poor company."

She wanted to argue that he was never poor company, but even she knew that to be a lie.

He sneered at her, "I will be grading papers for a few hours, yet, considering my afternoon has suddenly been freed up… until Potter's detention, that is."

She blushed, slightly, remembering Harry's predicament.

"I do have homework to finish, too, actually."

His eyes swept over her again, calculatingly, as if trying to discern if she was keeping something from him. She carefully held his gaze, calm, despite the shakiness of her bones that the attack had left her with.

"Naturally," he eventually drawled, before he returned to his desk, "No doubt you will not hesitate to bother me with any questions you have."

She smiled… that was the Snape way of offering to assist her should she need it.

"You know me so well, sir," she admired him with her eyes, and a gentle voice.

He grunted in response, already hunched over an essay that he'd half-marked in inches of red-ink. She watched him as she pulled her texts from her bag, distracted by the overwhelming smell of herbs and smoke, and the striking presence of a man whom she found herself liking more and more each day.

·

" _Are you afraid of me, witchling?"_

" _No."_

" _You're a terrible liar."_

 _Hermione didn't want to pull away from him, this time, but leaned into the dance, allowing him to lead her along._

" _As are you, Severus."_

 _He smirked down at her, dark eyes sparkling, "Where it concerns you, yes, I cannot lie even to myself."_

 _She found herself leaning up, eyes closing as their lips came dangerously close—_

"What did Slughorn want?"

Hermione blinked at Ron, who she'd sat beside at dinner. Harry proved to be equally as ravenous as she felt, as he was shoveling food in his mouth, trying to gather strength for his detention—or the party, she wasn't sure if he knew he wouldn't be able to go.

Slughorn had stopped her as she entered the Great Hall and asked her eagerly to attend, to which she gave no certain answer. She didn't know who would be there, and was not eager to put off the assignments that had been piling up around her given all her sudden responsibilities.

She rubbed her eyes, blinking at the bright lights of the candles. To her embarrassment, she'd fallen asleep in front of Snape, and had dreamed of him, again. After a time, the man woke her, warning that she would miss dinner. Hermione had softly woken to the sound of his deep voice—the same deep voice of her dreams—and wished she could have woken in the same manner every morning. She would surely wake in a much better mood than she did when she woke to Lavender's snores.

"Er, to invite me to a party, tonight."

"Bloody—he invited Harry to the same party! Are you going, then?"

"I might, if Harry is attending."

Ron seemed offended that she would even bother.

Harry frowned in disappointment at her, "I've got detention with Snape. There's no way he'll let it postpone a second time. For Dumbledore, maybe, but not Slughorn."

Hermione agreed. While Snape hadn't been in a foul mood, where it concerned Harry, he could be rather vindictive.

"I'd wished you'd come… I don't want to go on my own."*

"I doubt you'll be alone. Ginny will probably be invited," Ron snapped.*

Sensing tension, Harry changed the subject, "How was the Hospital Wing? You left in such a hurry, it must have been a terrible accident."

Her face turned red as she thought back to the time spent with Snape in his office and realized it had been the best time she'd had all week. Contrary to his claims, the man had been great company. Most of the hour she'd been awake had been spent in silence, but he had indulged one or two of the questions she'd had for him. It was only after the potions had taken effect that she'd grown tired, too tired to keep awake, it seemed.

After she had eventually realized what happened—falling asleep curled in his spare office chair—she'd hurriedly gathered the books she'd let fall to the floor. Snape didn't speak a word at her when she bid him a good night hastily (avoiding his gaze at all cost, let he peer into the fresh memory of the dream she'd had, of the two of them, again) and left, intent for the Great Hall to satiate her hunger.

"Just a false alarm," she lied, "I did administer a couple batches of Skele-Gro for missing teeth, thanks to your trials… and then I cleaned the back stockroom."

"Again?"

"You know how Madam Pomfrey is," she said, before remembering, "How was Hagrid's? Did you tell him I was sorry I missed it?"

"Yeah," Harry answered, but he frowned, "He's pretty miffed at us, but he understands. I think he's mostly just sad about Aragog."

"Aragog?"

Ron grew silent, naturally, and Harry answered, "He's dying, apparently."

"Oh, that's awful," Hermione said, as she had not been there the first time they'd met the monstrous spider. Ron and Harry shared a look, and she frowned, "For Hagrid, I mean… he's very attached to him."

Ron mumbled under his breath all the way up to Gryffindor Tower.

Harry eventually asked her, "Maybe you can do something to help?"

"I don't know much about healing magical creatures," Hermione admitted, which was mostly truly. Besides, at Aragog's age, there was little chance that anything could be done, "He is rather old… I doubt there's much anyone can do."

Even Ron fell into a solemn silence at that, as each of them pondered the finality of death—an occurrence that seemed to be happening all too commonly, as of late. They fell into their normal routine… finding a table in the Common Room, going over the Evening Prophet. Harry took the opportunity to bring up his suspicions about Draco given the news that his family home had once again been searched. Hermione did not steer him away, knowing he was as stubborn about this as he was about the Prince's book.

Eventually, it was Ron who asked Harrry to drop the subject. He'd grown testier since dinner.

"Listen, it's not my fault Slughorn invited Hermione and me to his stupid party, neither of us wanted to go, you know!"*

Hermione sighed inwardly.

"Well, as I'm not invited to any parties," Ron got to his feet, "I think I'll go to bed!"*

She stared after him, and admitted to herself that she would much rather to do the same than go to Slughorn's party. The dream she'd been having had been rather… enjoyable, and she hoped to return to it that night.

As she recalled the feeling of Snape's lips approaching hers, the butterflies in her belly took flight. Beside her, Harry was listening carefully to a message given by Demelza.

"From Professor Slughorn?"*

"No… from Professor Snape."*

As they had suspected, Snape had not postponed Harry's detention. Hermione tried not to smile, knowing that even though Harry did not want to go to Slughorn's Party, it would have been much more enjoyable than what Snape had designed for him.

"Are you going, then?" Harry asked, "You should go, if you want."

"I don't know, Harry… I'm sort of tired. There'll be other parties, hm? Slughorn's determined to have us both in one of his photos, is he not?"

He seemed to appreciate that she rolled her eyes at the notion, and she smiled after him.

Not long after, Ginny came by to ask her if she wanted to walk with her to the party. She declined. The youngest Weasley didn't put up much of a fight, considering Hermione had nearly dozed off while reading and was blinking to stay awake. Eventually, when it proved inevitable that she would soon pass out, the bookish witch found herself slowly climbing the stairs, bag dragged behind her.

"Merlin," Lavender said when she arrived a few minutes later, "You look comfortable."

Hermione grunted in response, too comfortable beneath the green blanket to bother with drawing the curtains. She didn't notice the blonde witch approaching her bed, plucking the book she'd been reading from beside her pillow to read the title and flip through a few of the pages.

"Runes of ritual healing? Sounds… boring, as predicted. No wonder you're so exhausted all the time."

Lavender gazed down at Hermione in disdain. She placed the book back where she'd found it, disgusted, before she disappeared behind her own bed curtains.


	25. Witnesses

**A/N: Happy Snow Days!**

·

Chapter 24  
 _Witnesses_

·

"You're not still mad at me about this morning, are you?"

"Yes, Harry," Hermione told him, putting down her Butterbeer on the ancient Three Broomsticks Table. It had been weeks since term began, and she was at her wits end with him.

Harry wasn't in exactly the best of moods, so she had decided to be as brisk as possible with him. It wasn't as if he would listen to her, anyway—not about that stupid book, and certainly not now.

On top of the fiasco with Mundungus, who Harry had caught in possession of Sirius' stolen goods, he was still peeved at her about yet another argument over the Prince's book. _That_ , and they'd just endured _another_ visit from Slughorn. The portly and currently rather sloshed Professor was as hopeful as ever that Harry would attend his next dinner party. It would be the third meeting of the so-named "Slug Club" (excluding the one Hermione had missed on the train), and the third Harry would miss. Sluggy was oblivious to the fact that every invitation was driving the stubborn Gryffindor further away—and putting him in an even worse mood than he was before.

Hermione, herself, had attended two parties so far, and they weren't _that_ bad… when McClaggen wasn't trying to strike up conversations with her about mundane things like what shampoo she used, at least, or bragging about his "Quidditch" prowess. Honestly, could he be any less pigheaded? Still, McClaggen aside, she rather liked that Slughorn took the time to ask her about her parents, even though they were muggles… and she liked talking about healing with people other than Pomfrey. Ron and Harry tended to get a glazed look on her face when she brought up anything remotely complicated, but those in the Slug Club seemed genuinely interested in her abilities.

She could see why Harry wouldn't want to come... there was no doubt in her mind that Slughorn would bring up his accomplishments just as he did hers. For Harry, however, all of what he was known for, especially the event that he was most famous for, was associated with terrible memories for him.

As if sensing what she was thinking, Harry suddenly shot her a venomous look, "You really don't know how to let things go, Hermione."

She sighed—couldn't he ever take his frustrations out on Ron, instead of her?

Spiteful, despite her wish, she snapped back, "No more than you do."

The boy's green eyes darkened. Surprisingly, he held his tongue. Ron looked apprehensive, and refrained from speaking at all, as if afraid anything he might say would set either of them off into another tirade.

At this point, the mood was unlikely to lighten: a product of the weather and the growing tension. Hermione wasn't exactly a peach herself, these days. She was passing most of her classes, but only barely—showing just enough mastery to warrant 'acceptables'. McGonagall had pulled her aside to express that she was concerned, but she'd been easily brushed off with a few promises to do better. The witch didn't seem entirely convinced, but had relented, for now.

But for how long would _that_ last? While she wouldn't mind explaining her predicament to her head of house, she couldn't seem to find the words.

It really wasn't necessary, she supposed; she would live, even if she failed…

She snorted at the thought, once a great fear of hers, and Harry narrowed his eyes at her, likely thinking she was laughing at him.

McGonagall knowing would make her life easier, but she supposed she could just talk to Dumbledore about it. He would find a way to placate her. She had been meaning to meet with him, after all... there were a few things she wanted to ask him. She just hadn't found time. iI between making sure Harry didn't accidentally hurt himself with one of the Prince's spells and researching about healing rituals for Snape, she had a very slim window for personal endeavors.

"Gods, I've been a miserable lout, haven't I?" Harry choked out a surprised laugh, surprising his two best friends.

Hermione didn't hesitate to say: "Yes."

He shook his head at them both, then downed the rest of his Butterbeer. There would be no more fighting, at least.

"Shall we call it a day and go back to school?"*

By now, he'd grown aware of the furtive glances being sent his way by a group of fourth-year girls and was avoiding glancing to his left at all cost. Still, Hermione appreciated the calming tone he now adopted, and was proud that he'd grown at least marginally since. The witch nodded to him, and Ron agreed. They finished off their drinks, hoping the Butterbeers would last them long enough that they wouldn't freeze on their way back to the castle.

The witch slung her arm through both of the boys', "That was sort of refreshing, wasn't it? To get out of the castle?"

Ron seemed disturbed by her suddenly cheery tone, his cheeks red from the frosty cold. Harry merely gazed on ahead of them, overcome by some distant demon. She tried her best to hold on to her sense of positiveness, but it was lost on the two of them.

Although they weren't aware of this, this was the first time she'd been outside the castle grounds since… well, since the ministry (excluding her visits to the Shrieking Shack, which wasn't exactly an ideal vacation spot and was protected by Hogwarts' wards via Dumbledore and Snape). She rather found she enjoyed the new scenery, but admitted that she felt slightly off-kilter… while the security was increased tenfold around the village, she couldn't help but be reminded of her particular vulnerabilities, and proud that she'd braved it, besides... and survived, to boot. Not that the Death Eaters would be stupid to attack Hogsmeade, considering the amount of aurors she'd noticed skulking about.

Honestly, what had she been afraid of?

"Say, 'Mione, we've got a few hours... do you think you could help me with that Charms essay?"

"Again, Ronald?" She huffed, "That's the third one this—"

"It has nothing to do with you, Leanne!"*

She and Ron and Harry couldn't help but listen in on the conversation ahead of them, the voices growing so loud that they drowned out their own. It was not because they were getting any closer; no, it sounded like the beginnings of a row.

As the trio rounded the slope, they happened upon a peculiar sight—Katie Bell and a girl whose name she could not quite recall—were arguing over a package which Katie held. When it fell to the ground, Katie lunged for it, as she might a baby that had fallen from her arms… and at once, her body spun into the air. She was left eerily suspended—just as the candles were in the Great Hall, as if caught in some invisible force-field.

Hermione and the rest watched, helpless, as her body grew unnatural still, as if the very air had frozen and Katie with it. Something was wrong, of course… Katie's expression was blank and whatever was happening left a bad taste in their mouths. Not a one could find a voice to speak out against it, as if whatever hurt her had stolen that, too.

And then, to their unsurprised horror, Katie let out a blood-curdling scream.

 _So much for avoiding stressful situations…_ thought Hermione, who felt her body seize in fear at the sound.

The rest was a large blur of movement. Leanne, whose name was suddenly remembered, attempted to grab Katie but slipped on the ice. As soon as Ron, who was more athletic, made contact with her body, the spell seemed to shatter. The witch fell, toppling over the boys who'd attempted to catch her with the swiftness they dealt with quaffles. Both Ron and Harry struggled to hold her down, as she was writhing violently—tell-tale signs of something sinister; dark magic.

Hermione at once reached into her shirt, pressing her wand against the sickle rather than the galleon, summoning both Snape and Pomfrey. Because there was nothing else she could do, she stood, mute.

Harry, satisfied that his team-mate could restrain the cursed girl without him, disappeared toward the school, "Stay there! I'm going for help!"*

"Can't you do something?" Leanne spat at Hermione as she dropped to her knees to help Ronald, taking Harry's place.

They both struggled to keep Katie from harming herself—or them.

It felt like a cheap lie, but it was the only one she had, "No… I haven't mastered diagnostics yet—and it's not safe for me to try, not knowing what the curse is."

Even with the talismans, she knew she was no match for whatever this was.

Leanne dropped her head in hopelessness, obviously distressed at seeing Katie so miserable.

Thankfully, Harry returned quickly with help: Hagrid. And although she couldn't tell the others, she knew that Pomfrey was preparing the hospital wing for Katie's arrival, and Snape was on his way to intercept the victim. The sooner he got to her, the better.

Hermione hesitated—she should go with them, as she was Pomfrey's assistant, but what was there that she could do? This was Snape's forte, clearly… even Pomfrey would admit that.

"It's Leanne, isn't it?"* Hermione asked as she approached Katie's friend, after Hagrid had disappeared, his captive's screams dying on the wind.

Leanne could only nod.

"Did it happen all of a sudden, or—"*

"It was when that package tore."*

Hermione immediately went to the package and crouched down. Ron bent down beside her and began to reach for the necklace, the thing which had caused this horrible event.

" _Don't touch it!_ " Harry said, a fraction before she did.

Ron snatched his ungloved hand away, looking slightly confused that he would even try.

"I've seen that before…" the Boy Who Lived explained to them. It had been on display in Borgin and Burkes in Diagon Alley, or so he testified, "Where did Katie get a hold of it?"

"Well, that's why we were arguing. She came back from the loo at the Three Broomsticks holding that package, said it was a surprise for somebody back at Hogwarts and she was to deliver it. She looked all funny when she said it… Oh no, oh no, I bet she'd been Imperiued and I didn't even realize!"*

Leanne began to cry, which spared Hermione from having to deal with the pitied looks that Ron and Harry sent her, as if the mere mention of Imperius would send her into a depressed spiral.

"Did she say who gave it to her?"*

"No, she wouldn't tell me, and when I pressed her, she flipped out! I—I tried to… but…"

The girl grew even more emotional.

"Let's get her to the castle—"

"Wait," Harry pulled his scarf from around his face and, even though Ron and Hermione cringed as he did it, wrapped up the necklace in it, careful not to touch it with his hands.

Hermione focused on her patient, Leanne, trying to both comfort her and warm her up. Behind her, Harry began to rant about Malfoy—how he must have been responsible, as Harry had seen him looking hard at the necklace in Knockturn Alley a few years back. It must have been what Draco had been collecting the day Ron and Harry had followed him.

While it was a plausible suspicion, it was not a concrete one. Accusations like that were taken very seriously by people like Malfoy, however far he'd fallen from grace with his father's imprisonment. If Harry went spouting off about it to just anyone, there would be consequences.

"I—I dunno, Harry,"* said Ron, who understood the dangers of slander in their world, and Hermione was once again glad for his presence, "And besides, didn't she get it in the girls' bathroom?"*

"She said she came back from the bathroom—doesn't mean that's where she got it!"*

Harry opened his mouth to argue.

"McGonagall," Ron warned, urging Harry to halt his rantings before she overheard.

The stern witch accosted them to follow along after her, eager to collect their testimonies of what had happened. When she saw that Harry was clutching something, she demanded he tell her what. After he explained, she let out a displeased "Good lord."

As soon as they reached the castle, the necklace and the scarf were passed to Filch, who was to deliver it to Snape. After he'd relented its care, Harry gave Filch a mistrusting look. The squib did not notice, as he had hurried off, toward the infirmary.

The castle seemed receptive to their urgency and they made it McGonagall's office quickly. Hermione numbly listened as she asked them questions about what had happened, offering no testimony. She was trying to wrap her brain around it all: who would hurt Katie? What curse could do such a thing? Was this the act of a Death Eater? Had they been targeting someone else? Who?

When her head of house sent Leanne to go collect a Calming Draught from the mediwtich, Hermione offered to go with her.

"Very well, then, Granger. I assume Potter and Weasely will explain what happened just as well without you."

Hermione ignored the biting tone of her head of house (they were all on edge, so it was understandable) and gathered Leanne once more in arm. Her classmate seemed to have grown very quiet, likely in shock now as her hysteria had passed, and clung to Hermione's arm as if it were a life-raft. They traveled slowly but surely to the infirmary, not too far from McGonagall's office.

"Hermione, dear, how are you?"

"Fine," she spared Pomfrey no smile, only a courteous nod, "Where's Katie?"

"With Professor Snape," Madam Pomfrey admitted. She sent a look toward a curtain in the corner. The witch stepped toward them and felt a terrible sensation overcome her. She shivered and backed away.

When she met Hermione's eye, Poppy's gray-green irises were not as clear as they normally might have been. It wasn't every day, or every year, that she had to deal with a patient who had been cursed to unconsciousness—well, at least, it had been nearly five months since the last time. And once again, she'd relented her job to Snape, who must have known more about dark magic than anyone at Hogwarts.

 _And what do the other healers do when they have to deal with such things?_

Hermione frowned at the thought. Once again, they would be lost without his knowledge of the dark arts. Leanne, beside her, drifted forward, then stepped back, just as Hermione had—she could sense the magic, too.

"Madam Pomfrey, I believe Leanne needs a Calming Draught?"

"Yes, yes, that is likely best. You know where they are," she was concentrating on the diagnostic, attempting to assess the damage the curse might be doing to her interior.

Hermione sat Leanne down on the bed, drawing the curtain to prevent anyone who might enter from bothering her. She began to clean the tears off of her face and collected the Calming Draught, asking her if she'd found anything she liked in Hogsmeade, what her plans were for the week, if she'd been to any of Slughorn's Parties (she had, Hermione remembered seeing her... her mother was a Charms prodigy, or Transfiguration; Hermione couldn't recall)—anything to distract her from the memory that the younger witch was trying to blot out of her mind.

After a time, Leanne began to actually answer her questions, rather than nod or shake her head. The potion had taken effect.

"Would you like me to escort you back to the Common Room, now?"

"Can't I stay here?"

"Of course, Leanne, but you should definitely try and get some sleep if you do."

"You're right," Leanne sniffled, but otherwise seemed eerily at ease with the world. She curled into a ball, staring at the curtain blankly.

"Goodnight," Hermione said, letting her hand slip out of Leanne's as she led her to the exit. She knew Leanne would sleep.

When she righted the curtain, she headed for Madam Pomfrey, who was swiping through diagnostic after diagnostic. They were hastily made, but by the looks of them, they were Katie's. Half of them were black, which did not pose a good sign.

"What can I do for her?"

"Nothing, my dear," the mediwitch said, smiling at her sadly, "This is out of my realm of capabilities, obviously, or I wouldn't be standing here pretending to be doing something useful myself."

Hermione laughed at her obvious embarrassment, but it was clipped and tasted like ash.

Poppy sighed, sensing that her young apprentice, as Snape called her, would not be cheered, "Whatever it is, I won't dare break Severus' concentration."

"He's attempting to keep the curse from spreading?"

"Yes, and I do believe he is going to nullify the object, if he can; I believe he will succeed. She was extremely lucky, she was—barely touched it at all… then again, if it weren't for the hole in her glove, she might not have been cursed at all."

Hermione frowned.

Was it lucky? Wouldn't she have been luckier not to have a hole in her glove, at all?

"I've already contacted St. Mungo's. We'll keep an eye on her for the night, but tomorrow she will be admitted."

"It's that bad?" Hermione murmured. Even she hadn't had to go to Mungo's—but, then again, had she, she might not have survived the summer. The records of the hospital were much more public than those of Hogwarts.

"Unfortunately, yes. I won't know for certain until Severus finishes, which _should_ be soon," Pomfrey admitted, "But either way, we shan't fret. I have a good feeling that you and your friends arrived just in time to spare Katie's life... had you sent that message half-a second later…"

She trailed off. Hermione, however, was unconvinced that it had made much of a difference.

 _If I'd been paying attention, I could have prevented it_ , she thought. _Hadn't Snape taught me Occlumency for a reason? So I'd be more aware of my surroundings? What good is it to know if I don't use it?_

"You mustn't blame yourself, Hermione," Poppy reached out and grasped her by the shoulders, "There was no way to know."

Couldn't she feel it, now? Coming from behind the curtain? Why couldn't she have felt it before?

 _Because you were two busy pretending the world was all sunshine and daisies—the exact opposite of what Snape has been trying to show you for months!_

She should have known! What had hurt Katie was dark, dark magic, black as night—and it was strong enough that it was obscuring everything that she adored about Professor Snape's…

 _Was that it? Was that what that feeling is? The scent, the sounds, the warmth? His… magic?_

Curious. Why was it she could sense his and no one else's?

The nurse persisted, drawing her from her thoughts, "Come now, you'll stay and keep me company, won't you, while I wait for Severus to finish?"

She nodded, eager to distract herself from the burgeoning guilt she was beginning to feel.

·

By the time night arrived, Severus was exhausted. One, he hadn't expected to waste three hours of his life attempting to keep a fatal curse at bay from one of his students, let alone two more removing the curse from a bloody necklace. Two, he hadn't expected that he would find traces of his godson's magic all over the bloody thing. It was better to destroy it completely, and he did so.

Luckily, by the time the aurors arrived to the hospital wing to collect it from him—hours after the girl had been cursed, thanks to Albus' careful interventions—he'd managed to do just that. The headmaster would be pleased that he had… it wouldn't do to have his assassin behind bars before he could succeed in killing him. Tonks, luckily, managed to placate the other two aurors, who were highly irritated that they had no evidence. Of course, they were suspicious of him, but he was used to suspicion, whether it was unfounded or not.

Grimacing at the macabre thought, he washed his face with Augamenti from the bedside of Katie Bell, who had at least been stabilized if not completely healed. He thought, briefly, of his godson. Severus pitied him for inheriting his father's lack of sense. Draco, he had determined, was a bleeding idiot, just like Lucius.

Not only was the headmaster gone until Monday, which essentially made Katie's ordeal all that more unnecessary, but the Malfoy heir was being sloppy about his assassination attempts—any trained killer would know how to cloak their magical essence. Of course, Draco wasn't a trained killer, he was a stupid teenager, but he was also almost half-certain that Draco was _trying_ to get caught, just so he could get arrested. At least in Azkaban, he could be with his father, and would be safe from Voldemort. Relatively… but not for long.

Draco never was one for looking ahead. He lived in the now, and it was proving to be his undoing.

"Bloody imbelice," he hissed.

He'd tried to reason with the boy, but he'd been poisoned by Bellatrix into believing that Severus was working against him. Why he believed his aunt, he didn't know, but to think on it too hard would only cause him emotional pain that he was unequipped to deal with.

By the time he emerged from Katie's bedside, long after she had stopped screaming, Granger, who he had both heard arrive hours ago, had fallen asleep. Naturally, she'd had a long day, having witnessed such a thing. Being around dark magic was always exhausting for someone like her, someone good and innocent, and, in her weakened state, she would be especially vulnerable to emotional distress.

Had she ever _seen_ such a curse? He doubted it. It was one thing to endure dark magic, and another completely to see it unfold before you.

"Severus," Pomfrey fretted as she headed over to him, "Are you alright?"

The witch clucked when he set a warming charm on Miss Granger, as she'd been shivering even beneath the blanket. From there, he smirked at the worrisome mediwitch, who was avoiding his gaze. He could tell she'd been worried about his intentions for the girl—likely assumed he would wake her and send her off to her tower where she belonged.

But he was not so cruel as to wake her from slumber. In these times, it was hard to come by. He of all people knew that.

"...Katie Bell?"

"Stable. But you already knew that."

"Yes, well... it was hard not to hear," Pomfrey muttered, "Dawlish always was a loud one, wasn't he? I swear, if she'd died because of their stubbornness—"

"They posed no harm. By then, I was merely monitoring her for any unexpected consequences," Severus told her irritably, wincing. His neck was aching from hunching over the girl and his back was, literally, on fire.

"Hmph... still," Pomfrey sighed with relief, seemingly ignorant of his non-compliant silence, "Should I check on her, then?"

"She's fine, for now, unless you feel you must oversee my work," he insisted dryly, as he leaned over Miss Granger.

"No, no, that won't be necessary."

He inspected her closely, taking the opportunity to drape one of the spare blankets around his charge's shoulders. His fingers lingered; despite the warming spell, he felt the coldness of her skin and he cast another over her, for good measure.

"She worked herself up, I think," Pomfrey began to say, this time speaking of Granger, "I had her practice her wandwork in my office; I hope that's alright… just year one spells."

He nodded. He trusted Pomfrey to know what to do if Granger had another reaction, not that he expected one would ever come. But you couldn't be too sure.

The witch seemed proud to say, "She likely won't wake until late tomorrow morning."

It as likely true... while cold, Granger was out like a light.

As he settled into the chair beside her, he bit back a groan of pain. He wanted very much to find a drink, or eight. The remnants of the curse—Bell's curse, not his—burst onto his tongue like a stain, copper and iron and…

"Severus? Will she recover?"

He blinked his eyes open. Had he drifted off? "Granger?"

"No… Miss Bell."

"I have restricted the curse, but I cannot cure her."

"There is nothing you can do for her?"

"Nothing more, no," he admitted, "Luckily, the curse's effects are fixable, but she will recover with only one remedy…"

"What?"

"Time," his eyes fixed hers poignantly.

"Ah… but she will recover fully?"

"I believe so, if she has the will to survive. It is lucky she is young and healthy, to begin with."

Pomfrey wrung her hands, and a haunted look he had seen in many of the other older residents of Hogwarts when they read the papers or discussed the news fell upon her weathered face, "Severus, who would do this terrible thing?"

He avoided her gaze, choosing instead to glance toward the slumbering witch, "I do not believe this object was intended for Miss Bell."

"Then… who?"

He gazed backwards towards her, shrugged. She should know there were only two people at Hogwarts who might be worth risking the security to kill. And they both knew who would try to kill the Chosen One and his most notorious protector. Any Death Eater would be glad to see to the task, but, unfortunately, the only confirmed Death Eater at Hogwarts was himself. Following his train of thought, she chose to leave that conversation as it had ended, with subdued uncertainty.

Poppy paced toward the window, peering over the dark trees and the shimmering black lake.

"I wonder, Severus... are you going to tell me about—Severus?"

He was asleep, head tilted back ever so slightly against the chair. Even in sleep he appeared stiff, uncomfortable, all joints and limbs and angles.

His thin mouth was a grim line and his eyes were barely closed, as if he would spring awake at any moment. Every inch of him seemed prepared to jolt awake, to fight... save the long, worn fingers on his left hand, which was gently hovering over the hospital blanket, over-top Granger's curled fist. There was something there, something perhaps slightly untoward... a closeness that should have made her feel worried, concerned, but instead made perfect sense.

She didn't dare drape a blanket over him, worried he might wake, but she did draw the curtain, sparing them scrutiny by those who might not understand.


	26. Revelio

**A/N: In response to a very welcomed critique, this chapter has been edited to remove Severus' smoking habit... I was toying around with the idea and now that I go back and read it, it doesn't really matter if he does or doesn't; so it's easy to remove, considering I am unlikely to ever talk of it ever again. Also, from now on, instead of indicating that I am taking dialogue from the lovely JK with asterisks, if you see anything familiar, feel free to ask me and I will let you know! Or just reference the HBP book. Thanks, loves! (Special thanks to my guest reviewer... you know who you are).**

·

Chapter 25  
 _Revelio_

·

Hermione slept well into Sunday morning. By the time she awoke, Katie was gone—taken to St. Mungo's. Harry and Ron filled her in on what had happened with McGonagall… she knew Harry had overreacted by the way Ron explained how he'd accused Malfoy. Leanne had been released by Pomfrey, and when she found her later in the Common Room, she looked more like a ghost than a teenager. She refused to speak of what happened to anyone, even the three others who had been witness to the curse. Dobby visited her Sunday night—Snape had disappeared for an hour, but returned mostly unharmed… he'd suffered the Cruciatus and remained confined in his chambers until the week began.

The young witch considered going to him, but she found she had no excuse to do so. Too afraid that Snape would see right through her, she cowardly refrained.

Monday, Harry went off to his meeting with Dumbledore, and she spent the evening studying with Ron—well, she studied, and he wasted a better part of an hour unknowingly flirting with Lavender, who had taken to joining them more and more. Hermione tried not to mind—it was a free country, and Lavender could like whoever she wanted. Honestly, she didn't care who Ronald chose to share his affections with, anymore, and she was happy for him… but couldn't he have picked someone with more substance than Lavender-sodding-Brown?

Half-an-hour passed of Lavender's giggling and Ron's irksome attempts at flirting, before she decided to attend Slughorn's party, instead, just to avoid vomiting. It proved to be a nice distraction, even if it meant listening to McClaggen's narcissistic anecdotes… who knew that Gwenog Jones could top even the blonde Gryffindor's over-inflated sense of importance?

Eventually, Tuesday morning arrived, and with it Harry's account of his "lesson" with Dumbledore from the night previous.

"Wow, scary thought… the boy You-Know-Who,"* Ron said with a grimace. Hermione admitted to feeling the same chill down her spine. She did not envy the opportunity, even as curious as she was to know how Tom Riddle might have been as a boy, "But I still don't get why Dumbledore is showing you this."*

"Dunno, but he says it's all important and that it will help me survive."*

"I think it's fascinating," Hermione told them earnestly, "It makes absolute sense to know about Voldemort. How else will you know his weaknesses?"*

"If he even has any," Ron muttered under his breath. Luckily, Harry hadn't heard him and changed the subject.

"How was Slughorn's party, 'Mione?"

She told him, making sure to lay it on thick, just to spite Ronald for having tortured her the night before. Naturally, she knew he would be upset at the mention that the captain of the Harpies had been there… unfortunately, before she could wind him down about it, Sprout called them out for chatting.

Under his breath, as if she couldn't hear him, the redhead of the group muttered, "Should've used Muffliato, Harry."*

She shot Ron a contemptuous look, " _No_ , we shouldn't!"*

When they'd finished battling with the batch of wood, Hermione told Harry, "Slughorn's going to have a Christmas Party, Harry. And you won't be able to get out of this one. He had me check your free evenings, and made it for a night especially where you could attend."*

Harry groaned.

Ron looked less than pleased, "And this is another party just for Slughorn's favorites, is it?"*

"Just for the Slug Club, yes."*

" _Slug Club_ —It's pathetic. Well, I hope you enjoy your party. Why don't you try hooking up with McClaggen, then Slughorn can make you King and Queen Slug—"*

"We're allowed to bring guests," she shot back, wondering how in the world he knew about McClaggen. Of course, the git had probably bragged about his fancying her, or whatever it was that he thought was going on with them… "and I was _going_ to ask you, but if you think it's going to be stupid, I won't bother!"*

"You were going to ask me?"*

"Yes, but obviously if you'd rather I hooked up with McClaggen…"*

"No, I wouldn't."*

Hermione suddenly felt a sinking feeling… Ron wouldn't take her proposal the wrong way, would he? She'd intended they would go as friends, considering he'd been whining about these parties for months and really wanted to go. But… was this a date?

 _Perhaps you should have specify that it wasn't. Lavender of all people won't be pleased._

 _Bugger Lavender! He was my friend for years before she even noticed him…_

Luckily, Harry spared her from an awkward moment of having to explain when he broke something rather violently. They scurried to fix it and the conversation was left behind.

Unfortunately, it didn't leave her thoughts; there was nothing she could do to spare herself awkwardness for the remainder of the day, or the next few, as she agonized over the development. Ron and she were extremely polite to one another, likely due to nerves on both their parts. Neither of them talked about the party, or Slug Club, at all; in fact, they didn't really talk about anything.

Because she was a coward, she decided she would let the night play out as it was, and if he tried anything, er, well... she supposed she would stop him.

Ron seemed to sense her nervousness, and this only seemed to aggravate his own. The morning of the Quidditch-Slytherin match had the entire team—all of Gryffindor, honestly—on edge, mostly because they were worried how he was going to react. Hermione hated that a sport of all things could make them all act like such fools, especially Ron, but she would never hope to understand something like Quidditch.

She could care less who won or lost, either, considering she couldn't attend anyhow (a tragedy, honestly, she thought to herself dryly). But everyone had been making such a fuss about showing the team support, especially after they'd been struggling during practice. She would just be happy for it to be over with. If it meant Ron would stop whining about how awful he was and how he should never have made the team to begin with, she was all for it.

"How are you both feeling?"*

Ron and Harry were huddled at one end of the Gryffindor table—the others were all avoiding them like the plague, not surprising to her in the least considering Ron's attitude the days leading up to the match. He'd been verbally assaulting himself and his teammates for days.

With a quiet frown, she watched Harry closely. He didn't answer her right away, as he was too busy pouring Ron a drink.

"Harry..."

"Huh? Oh, we're fine," Curiously, she caught a glint of gold in his hand as he poured the pumpkin juice. He then offered it in a solicitous fashion to his surly teammate, "There you go. Drink up."*

She gasped, "Don't drink that, Ron!"*

The redhead paused, lips pressed to the rim, brow furrowed heavily, "Why not?"*

She rounded on Harry, "You just put something in that drink!"*

The Chosen One feigned innocence, "Excuse me?"*

"You heard me! I saw you," Hermione insisted vehemently, "You just tipped something into Ron's drink."*

"I don't know what you're talking about,"* Harry said casually, blatantly stowing the little bottle in his pocket.

 _The Felix Felicis... is he mad? Doesn't he realize how helpful that could have been?_

"Ron, I warn you... don't drink it!"*

Ron hesitated, but then, with a stern glare in her direction, he swallowed it in three determined, eager gulps.

"Stop bossing me around, Hermione."*

At that, she found she had no words.

 _Well, now you have an excuse to not go, at least…_

And she was happy to make it, in fact.

She dropped her head. In a hiss so that no one else but the two would hear, "I hope you're happy with yourselves. Good _luck,_ yeah? I won't get expelled because of you're stupidity."

"Hermione, wait—"

Because she was feeling spiteful, she stormed off. Naturally, Harry was quick to follow after, but she'd bonded with the castle over the summer, and it made certain to prevent him from keeping up. By the time she'd made it to the seventh-floor corridor, he was nowhere to be found. When she was face-to-face with the Fat Lady, she crossed her arms.

"Those two boys are such idiots. Don't they ever think?"

She tossed a spiteful glare behind her, hoping Harry felt her disdain through the stone floors between them.

"Most males don't, dearie," the Fat Lady told her with an eye-roll. She snorted.

 _Now, what was there to do on a Saturday morning while literally everyone else was out at the pitch, Snape and Pomfrey included?_

Read, of course… what else was Hermione Granger going to do on a day like today? The real questions was: what was she going to...

"Carry the day!"

The Fat Lady sprang open at the sound of the password and she entered the Common Room with a newfound sense of purpose. It didn't take long for her to find it, either. Harry hadn't even bothered to put it away, after all… it, the book, the Prince's book, was sitting right on top of his bed, as if it been waiting just for her to find it.

"There you are, you little bugger. Now, let's see what all the fuss is about, hm?" she told the book before she stuffed it violently into her bag and headed for the Common Room—everyone else was at the match, anyway. She had the entire room to herself.

After thirty minutes, it was clear to Hermione why Harry was doing so well… the person who had owned this book was brilliant beyond measure. Unfortunately, for Harry, the fact that she'd discovered his identity would be far from happy news. The script was smaller than she was used to seeing, and almost seemed to be a bastardized version of the precise, spidery scrawl that now lined her most recent DADA essay in red ink, but it was distinct enough that its owner couldn't be denied.

Severus Snape, of all people, was the Half-blood Prince.

"Is the Half-blood… Prince?" she wondered aloud.

Is, was... whichever. He was it. But what did that ridiculous title have to do with Snape? Did he choose it for himself? Or was it inherited? _Could_ he be a prince?

 _Don't be ridiculous, Hermione! Focus, you twit._

Naturally, the Prince's identity made perfect sense. He was the youngest potions master she'd ever heard off—a prodigy, although no one seemed to laud him as one. His brusque nature spared him from such praise, even from Slughorn, who would normally have boasted that he had been Snape's original teacher. As far as she knew, he avoided the man like a plague, as if they didn't even know one another.

Had he been this way all his life, then? Seclusive, irritable, rude?

She was madly curious about the younger mind of the ex-potions master (of course he'd been younger, that much was obvious, and she had set it in her mind that this book had belonged to him when he himself studied at Hogwarts, a thought as disturbing as the image Harry had painted of a young Voldemort). For obvious, selfish reasons, and practical ones, too, she thought perhaps the book she'd so abhorred for so many months might have answers to some of her most pressing questions... for example, what did Snape desire? What did he think about? What did he hope for?

Was he inherently good, or bad? Was he driven to the dark, or born of it? Did he dream? Did he cry?

She'd confirmed that he was neither black nor white long ago, but… what had he been _before_ he was what he was now? How had he grown into who he was a now, the enigmatic figure of her school-girl machinations?

Had he ever loved, or lost?

She longed for more than fleeting moments with him. And since she couldn't get to know the man any other way without years and years with him, she delved into his previous text with a newfound fervor, elated that Harry had been the one to find it and, thus, allowed it to be inadvertently shared with her.

He annotated everything, like some physics genius, who couldn't be bothered with finishing words as the thoughts came too quickly for his hands to keep up. While he was thorough and brilliant, he seemed impatient: when his ideas did not come to fruition, he scribbled them out violently, pressing the quill so hard, yet swiping so quickly that its tip nearly tore the paper. Sometimes, two or three lines would be crossed out, and always at the end the last would be written with such neat writing that she knew it had been clear to him before he even tested the spell or ingredient that it would be a success. The words— _Vulnera Sanentur,_ beneath two crossed out variations—were clean, crisp, visions of triumph, almost as if he'd preserved them with a spell.

She refrained from murmuring the incantations she found, sensing that many of them were not kind in nature, and focused instead on the potions aspect that had so propelled Harry's abilities this term.

She thumbed through burn pastes, draughts, antidotes, eager for more of him. There were adjustments made to nearly every brewing method, most typically with the preparation, and second most often to the order or delivery of the ingredients to the potion. He never strayed too far from the garden path, per say, but the fact that he was bold enough to even step a toe out of line said something about Snape that she hadn't expected of the strict, immovable statue she'd erected of him in her mind. Then again, she'd seen his flexibility first hand, both in body and in the flicker of a man she'd seen behind his eyes in his most vulnerable moments. Once again, the man he portrayed to the world was the not man he was.

When she came to the section on Love Potions, the pages fluttered, as if reflecting the nervous patter in her heart. To her discouragement, there was little in the way of romantic mutterings, however. He hypothesized a few ideas for a possible universal antidote, accompanied by an angry blotch of wet marks that she couldn't possible believe came from tears, even though they looked suspiciously like them.

"That's odd..."

She flipped the page back, and forth, squinting. It went straight from 107 to 109, as if...

The page on Amortentia, of all things, was… nonexistent. Could it be that the spell which had copied it had malfunctioned? No that couldn't be it _. S_ he could feel _magic_ in the book... it was enchanted, and that magic was strongest here. She smirked; she _knew_ it! The book had been dangerous, it was just that Harry wouldn't have ever stumbled across it.

The smirk died, giving way to burgeoning curiosity. Hermione could feel _his_ magic, specifically; and it was now quite painfully, stupidly obvious who the book belonged to, even besides the script. It smelt of him, reeked of him, save the new cover which Harry had cloaked it in. And surrounding the space where the page should have been, the magic, which she knew inherently was Snape's, was protecting something. It was not quite a ward, not quite a disillusionment: something in between, and of his creative design, no doubt.

Tantalized, fascinated, she leaned close, capturing the smell with a single, passionate intake of breath. But rather than clove and smoke, copper, iron, she could hear a tinkling of sound that overpowered everything else. They were nothing more than whispers, taunting her, yet striking in her a sense of longing she could not shake.

" _Revelio._ "

It didn't budge. Of course it didn't; she didn't have her wand out, and her magic was crippled.

But she whispered the word as if it would take flight, as if she could will it without a witch's most necessary tools, simply because it was his. As if that was all she needed to go back to normal...

Unconvinced that she wasn't going completely mad (at least half-unconvinced), she reached down and, with her gut as her guide, she was able to grab the invisible page between her fingers. It was risky, and it was thinner than she thought it would be, hot and slippery, but she held on. Once she began to rip it, she was certain she would likely suffer a nasty jinx for doing so. But Hermione was far too curious for her own good, and in this moment, she would rather have died than give up.

With one single motion, she ripped it free. Feeling scandalized (she didn't condone vandalism of books in any form), she found that it, first of all, bloomed into existence, just as Harry had so many times after dropping the invisibility cloak from his shoulders; second of all, no harm befell her, which was a grand relief. It was likely Snape never expected someone to inspect the book that closely… or be able to sense his magic as easily as she could.

"Amortentia…" she managed to read the title, but only barely. The page was covered in tiny script from corner to corner, top to bottom. Wherever there was room to fill, he'd filled it… with a bunch of… nonsense—random letters, it seemed, and made up symbols, scribbled in unorganized sequences. The lines were clumped all together, in one single stream of code, no gaps or spaces to discern them.

As she read it, it made no phonetic sense. On further analysis, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to them, at all, save three distinct words, at the very bottom, in the corner of the page. The Amortentia recipe seemed inconsequential to the Half-blood Prince's most eluding work, and he'd replaced its title with his own, as an after-thought, of course.

"The... Devil's Teas. No, Tears? The Devil's Tears."

There was no indication as to what the Devil's Tears would do, what it was, or what its relationship to the most powerful love potion in the world was. She pressed her lips to the parchment, tasting it through her nose: it smelt divine, of course. With a whisper, she begged it to reveal its secrets once more.

" _Revelio_."

But the cramped, random arrangement of letters remained as they were: an enigma. Still, if she unlocked the code, could she unlock the mystery of the man who had written it? Could it help her help him?

There was one way to find out.

Hermione, taken over by a great need to reveal the secret of all secrets, stood and jogged, all the way to the Room of Requirement. It was of no consequence that she left her things spread out, Harry's book among them, on the floor of the Common Room. None of that mattered... all that mattered was this _page._ It was the code to Snape's soul, she was sure of it.

Desperately, she gripped the page in her hands, paced and paced and paced, three times, exactly.

But the door didn't budge. It was occupied. But by who?

 _Doesn't matter. It's been broken through before, by Umbridge. The room is bound to anyone who asks for its help—sooner or later, by sheer force, it can become confused, if the will is great enough. You just have to want it badly enough._

She continued to pace.

 _Let me in, let me in, let me in._

But her feet grew weary and the urgency seemed to die with every failed set of thrice-given wishes. Eventually, she gave up the pacing, and simply waited around a corner, ready to pounce into the room as soon as she was able.

Ten minutes later, and the door suddenly appeared. Draco Malfoy, of all people, stepped out. Her mania seemed to dissipate into thin air as she watched him stalk around, searching for her. When he was satisfied that there was no one there, he skulked toward the staircase and shuffled down them, tossing wary glances behind him.

Why did he look so guilty? And what was he doing in the Room of Requirement, while literally everyone else was out at the pitch? Shouldn't he be on the field, playing? Had the game finished already?

 _No... no. Oh, no!_

She'd left the book out!

Harry would _know._

She abandoned the room and raced back to the Common Room. Of course, she realized halfway back that he couldn't possibly have played in the match. He must have skipped it, like she had.

Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that he'd likely been up to something far less loony than what she was doing, and snapped back to reality. The page was folded and slipped into her pocket and she made her way back to Gryffindor Tower at a brisk walk, mind reeling at to what he could possibly be doing in there. When she found no one had returned, she grabbed what she could and put everything back as she had found it... except for the page, which she read over and over again as she hid in the safety of her four-poster bed.

After about an hour, she heard noise from below. She had decided to forgive Harry. Hopefully he hadn't gotten caught with the Felicis; if he hadn't, then she decided she wouldn't bring it up again and would let the matter rest, just as she would let the matter with the Prince's book rest (for the most part; she couldn't very well just drop it!). Initially, she'd planned on apologizing to both Ron _and_ Harry; what they had done wasn't worth losing them, not now. They still somewhat needed her, didn't they? Even if they didn't know how useless she was, they still could use her help. Without her they would be lost.

As she descended the stairs, trying to figure out what she could say, all thoughts of forgiveness were dashed. She'd made it to the party just in time to see Lavender throw her arms around Ron's shoulders and cover his mouth hungrily with hers.

Obviously, she didn't expect to feel the sting of rejection, but it surged through her like lightning. She'd come to terms that she did not love Ron, or even like him besides as a friend. But she felt betrayed when he sunk his teeth into her dorm-mate's too-open mouth, even more so than she might have before. She'd wasted so much time worrying about sparing his feelings and he hadn't thought for a second about sparing hers.

To prevent herself from hexing the pair of them, she left the Common Room, choosing instead to duck into the nearest classroom to analyze the "Devil's Tears" page again. Something about the riddle felt hollow now, as if she was cheating. Even if she unlocked it, she would likely never know the real Snape—the one who lived and breathed before her, whose scent overwhelmed her, whose touch she dreamed of and whose heart was the real riddle. She thought she'd known Ron and... it was quite obvious she didn't. The Ron she'd imagined would never have hurt her like this. And she would have never hurt him, either. But she wasn't that person anymore, was she?

As much as she wanted to convince herself that it was worth the trouble, she doubted the riddle would satiate her growing thirst. Something about Ron casting her aside made her feel ominous and miserable: as if this was a foreshadowing of events to come.

Her life was just one, big disappointment, wasn't it?

·

Severus had summoned Draco promptly to his office after the match—not only had the boy abruptly decided not to show up to the match (cleverness he didn't expect from Draco, to blindside him in such a way so that he wouldn't take the advantage to prevent it), but he had done so without even warning his head of house. Then, he blatantly disobeyed his summons. By the time half an hour had passed waiting for him, Severus gave up.

While any other godfather would have gone sniffing after his disobedient godson, Severus was not a normal godfather. For one, the title was hardly official. It was one gifted to him out of convenience, as a sort of half-plea for forgiveness by Lucius for Malfoy Senior's involvement in his unconventional admittance into the Death Eater's ranks. But it was one that he did take seriously, however much it was intended that he did not need to.

Narcissa might not have liked him, nor he her, and even without their Vow, he owed Lucius a great debt. Whatever mess he'd left to Severus, he had also shown him kindnesses. Any other would have shirked them off as curses, but Severus, who had known very little opportunity in his early life, did not look at them with disdain, but clung to them as only a child of his upbringing could. And while the youth he'd looked up to as a young man had grown into nearly as cold a man as his father, there was hope yet for his son.

To follow after Draco would only drive him further away. Every attempt Severus had made to reach out to him was driving a bigger wedge between them. No doubt, it was Bellatrix's doing… his blonde ward had already begun to avert his gaze from Severus, hiding his thoughts with the most basic of protections. Any attempt he would make on Dumbledore's life was kept from Severus, and those who he had chosen to assist him were all of his aunt's lot: meaning they didn't trust their spy any more than they could tolerate his lack of purity.

He felt as trapped into protecting Draco as he did Potter; and while he would not rest until both boys' survived, he felt a futility in all of it. And when he felt this way, he often tried to run from the feeling.

"I thought I would find you here."

Severus glared out over the dying sun from his perch at the railings of the Astronomy Tower, determined to ignore the arrival of the headmaster as he watched his breath drift from his mouth and disappear into the sky in heartless spirals. He'd hoped to be alone... which was hardly anything new, but it didn't matter what he wanted. No amount of wards could keep out the headmaster at Hogwarts in the grounds of the school in which he was master of.

When he eventually broke away from gazing out over the grounds, Albus' blue eyes seemed to twinkle, but only faintly; there was a darkening tint to them, as if the sun was setting within.

Severus glanced towards his blackened, withered hand, limp at his side, then gazed out at the grounds, watching the shadows grow over the trees, resenting that this man knew more about him than he knew about himself. That's what happened between Occlumency mentors and mentees: they got into your head, and never seemed to forget about how it worked. He'd likely known where Severus was headed an hour before he had.

Because it was inevitable, he broke the silence first, "Before you ask me, for the hundredth time, I am not going to kill you."

"I was not going to ask. After all, the Malfoy boy seems determined enough to manage it."

"You call that disastrous attempt determined?"

"Katie Bell certainly would," a fact which made Severus feel sick with guilt—after all, if he just killed Dumbledore right now, Katie and the other students would be spared from another one of Draco's sloppy attempts. Then again, as soon as Dumbledore was dead, every student at Hogwarts would be in grave danger. Were one or two casualties worth preventing the inevitable, for as long as possible? "But please, Severus, indulge an old man... what would you have done better?"

"Do you think I stand around all day, dreaming of ways you murder you? Have you not heard a word I've said these past few months?"

"No, Severus, I don't, and yes, Severus, I have. But that doesn't change the fact that it should be you who does kill me, or that I am growing tired of hearing you whine about why you shouldn't."

"Whine—never mind. Tell me, Albus, why? Why me?"

"You know why, Severus… there is no one who would benefit more from causing my death, than you," the words stung like a white-hot dagger into his throat, "And in your success, Harry will find a most valuable ally at Hogwarts."

It was the true answer, but not the one he had wanted to hear.

His tone was biting, "I am no more valuable an ally than Minerva is. Than _you_ are."

There it was again. His silent plea: _let me put energy into trying to fix you, rather than kill you._

As impossible as it was, he'd seen miracles happen: Miss Granger had found her magic, against all odds, even without depending upon his to be given to her. That alone had instilled a sense of hope in him that maybe, just maybe, this war might end far more quickly than expected.

"No," Albus decided, as if he had any say in the matter. As if he was _ready_ to die, "My ability to assist Harry has already begun to dwindle."

Well, it wasn't his choice to make, was it? There were people who depended on him… people who required his guidance. Without him, the world would surely fall to darkness. Once there, Severus was certain he would never return from it. He'd only barely escaped his previous fall from grace, and certainly not unscathed.

"You do not have to die," he shot at the wizard, furious, angry with Draco, with Potter—always with Potter, for no reason than that he had caused his mother's death just as much as Severus had—with himself. With Granger, even though she was not to blame for anything, really. She just a pawn, like him, caught in the web of the great game waged between good and evil, between Dumbledore and Voldemort. Had this war ever been about anything else?

It had, but not in this moment. In this moment, he was suspended between two masters. It was an irony that the one he was loyal to would be so willing to shove him back into the arms of the other, as if it was so easy for him to slip back into the darkness.

"You do not have to die," he repeated, louder, making certain Albus understood him—knew what he really wanted to say.

 _I don't want you to die._

"But I do, Severus. I do. It is time that you accepted as such," the man's tone was not ungentle, but it was firm, immovable, "The sooner you do, the more advantage we will have—"

" _Fuck_ your advantages and your plans and you know what, Albus? Fuck _you_ ," he sniffed in another breath, held it longer than was necessary, "If you want to die so badly, why don't you jump, hm? You're in pain, I can see it… everyone can."

"My pain is irrelevant. It will be over soon."

"Oh, bull _shite._ I've been in agony for nearly twenty years, but you don't see me begging for death."

"Not now, at least," the headmaster replied coolly.

Severus ignored him. It was a bitter reminder that Dumbledore had prevented him from his own brief endeavor towards suicide, yet now couldn't be bothered to take the same advice or offer of help.

"I can see you will remain insensible," Albus sighed, impatient, "I wish it could be some other way, Severus; but there are more benefits to this plan than there are downfalls."

"And my soul, Albus?" he hissed, not for the first time, "What of _my_ soul?"

"What of Draco's?"

The spy said nothing, and the spy-master disappeared into the shadowed tower, leaving Severus to face the night alone.


	27. Curtains

**A/N: I have had five days off in a row thanks to the snow... so here is the next chapter! I've, unfortunately, caught up to myself, again, and I am pretty sure I will be working tomorrow. But don't worry! I've got the next chapter started, and a few in the works after. Enjoy for now!**

 **BTW, thank you to all my reveiwers. I'm terrible at replying, but I want to thank those of you who have stuck with this story, and those of you who have just discovered it and have taken the time to wish me well. Here's to you!**

 **ICYMI, I made a few minor adjustments to the previous chapters, too. I took the advice of a reviewer and removed the few mentions of Severus smoking. I agreed that it was goofy and I already half-hated it to begin with. Maybe it will pop up in one of my other stories. I do have a headcanon Severus that is covered in tattoos, but even I can admit that that's a little OOC for him, lol. Ah well, that's what fanfiction is for, right?**

·

Chapter 26  
 _Curtains_

·

A week had passed after the infamous quidditch match, and then another. She and Ron were obviously _not_ on speaking terms. The entire Gryffindor house seemed to be avoiding her, because of it, as if they feared she might take her wrath out on them. All of that "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" shite, and whatnot. At least it gave her an excuse to skip the Quidditch matches and to keep to herself.

If anyone needed help with their homework, they would have to come find her—and nowadays, she was not so easily found. Most of them time, she was holed away in the Room of Requirement, or the infirmary.

After the first two days, she'd grown tired of the pitying looks being sent her way at mealtimes and during classes, especially when the couple was out and about. Honestly, she could care less about what Ron or Lavender did with each other, or where. She wasn't going to let it get to her. The one night she'd wasted crying over the twit was enough. After all, she wasn't in love with him (or anyone, for that matter, or so she desperately told herself). And as far as she was concerned, no friend of hers would treat her this way, especially if he supposedly fancied her.

"Hey, 'Mione," Harry asked her at lunch, "Can we talk?"

He'd been tiptoeing the topic for nearly month, and had apparently found the courage to finally broach it.

She didn't look up, "About?"

"Slug's Christmas party is coming up..."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, and that's... er, how do you feel about that?"

"I'm not going."

"What?"

"Harry, I know you don't have a date, but I'm not going at all."

"Why not?"

"Why do you think?"

"Hermione, I can't go alone!"

"I went alone to all the other parties," she reminded him, to which he frowned.

"Is this about Ron?"

She sighed, heavily, "Why would it be about him?"

"You were supposed to go with him to the party. I figured that might have… stung a little."

"We were going as friends, Harry. I thought everyone knew that."

"Er, right… and now you're not going at all."

"Exactly."

"Look, 'Mione, I know you're mad at him, but—"

"Really? Why would I be mad at him?"

"I didn't say you weren't allowed to be mad at him… but, well, you're not going to tell anyone about the Confundus, are you?"

"Why would I do that, Harry?"

She wished she could have a conversation with him where she didn't have to lead him with questions.

"I dunno… to, er, get back at him?"

She felt her easy smile falter... she wanted to know how Harry felt about this. Was he on her side, or not?

"Get back at him for what, again?"

She scooped more potatoes onto her plate. She would need the energy for dueling later that day.

He watched her with a furrowed brow—he couldn't quite figure out why she was acting all "fine and dandy".

"For… er. Well."

She didn't feel like explaining it to him that she wasn't angry at all, but Harry wouldn't leave her alone otherwise.

"Am I going to try and get back at him for… kissing Lavender, after agreeing to go to the Christmas Party with me? For… pretending like I don't exist after five years of friendship, because he suddenly has a girlfriend to snog? For being a complete and _total_ git to me for weeks after?"

Well, maybe she was a little angry.

"Well, yeah—all of that."

"Confessing to the Confundus, while it would hurt him, is not worth getting expelled, or arrested for," she muttered, "Besides, they make a cute couple, don't you think? They deserve one another."

Harry's green eyes were skeptical.

"Really, Harry… I'm happy for him."

"Well, then, why won't you just go to the party with me, then, if it doesn't matter?"

She tossed down her plate and stood, abandoning Harry for the hospital wing. He was really clueless sometimes, wasn't he?

It wasn't about forgiving him for Lavender, or any of what she had said! It wasn't about her rumored heartbreak. It was about the fact that Ronald hadn't even thought of her before doing it. And, deep down, it was about Harry, too. About the both of them not even seeing that she was literally crumbling in front of their eyes.

How could they not have noticed? After all this time, how could they be so blind? Was she just there for them as a prop, to utilize when they were angry with one another? Was she the second-best friend?

Gods, what happened to them?

A part of her was happy that she'd duped them, but another, more vulnerable part admitted that she thought they might be somewhat more suspicious than they had been. Harry, of all people, was typically far more capable of scrutiny. But, perhaps he wasn't as interested as he had been at the end of last term. Or perhaps she was merely very good at pushing him away.

"Er, hey, Hermione."

"Hey, Neville... can I sit here, today?"

"Of course. Ready for the Charms exam tomorrow?"

"As ready as I will ever be..."

She ignored Harry's frown when he entered the Potions room and set about her work, determined not to think about anything at all but brewing.

·

"How is the girl, Severus?"

The ex-potions master sighed deeply. He had been hoping to avoid this conversation.

"She's distracted."

"Oh? By what?"

"How would I know?"

"Come now, Severus. The entire school is aware of what is going on between her and Mr. Weasley—and Miss Brown."

"Yes, well, I pay no attention to gossip," Severus cleared his throat, "But, if so, it would appear Miss Granger has learned very little from me in way of occluding."

"Distancing oneself from matters of the heart is not something that can be mastered in mere months. You know this."

Severus rolled his eyes. Albus was so far off, it was ridiculous. Granger wasn't in love with Weasley—

Well, he didn't think she was. Was she?

She hadn't seemed interested in him before. But now that she couldn't have him, was she realizing…

"And what of her plans for Christmas? Will she spend the holiday with her family?"

"I…" a part of him wanted to say no. She wasn't ready. But that part of him was selfish. She could very well go and visit her family, and be fine. She knew basic spells, and had enough talismans to get herself out of trouble. Besides, he doubted very much that the dark lord would attempt to break down the defenses Albus himself had set over her family home… the girl wasn't that important to him. Not yet, at least, "I would imagine."

"So long as you believe she is capable…"

"I don't see why I should refuse her the opportunity."

"No, I should think not. Why should you refuse her anything at all?"

Severus felt his brow furrow.

The headmaster backpedaled, "She has worked tirelessly from the beginning."

Why did he feel like Dumbledore was insinuating something other than what he had meant to say?

"I would tell her as soon as possible; I'm sure she will be happy to hear the news."

·

The day before Slughorn's Christmas Party, Hermione found herself changing the bandages of a first year Gryffindor who'd been bitten by one of Sprout's plants. It served him right for trying to get into the sixth years greenhouses. While Harry, who had gone looking for her after quidditch practice, grimaced at the sight of his arm, Hermione didn't flinch.

"Oh, Harry—that reminds me," she said as she dressed the wound, "Stop squirming, Melvin."

"It iches like hell."

"It's supposed to, and watch your language! Five points from Gryffindor—I'm still a prefect, you know," she told him, tightening her grip on his shoulder.

She ignored his muttering and turned to Harry, who made himself comfortable on a nearby bed with Snape's old text, "You need to be careful."

He seemed surprised at her even tone, considering her warning, "For the last time, I'm not giving back the book, Hermione."

He huddled over the pages protectively, as if she might snatch it from him at any moment.

"I'm not talking about your stupid so-called Prince," she hadn't intended for her voice to say so vehemently, but it was in character, at least, for her to hate it. And she did hate it, with a newfound passion.

Why did Snape have to be so bloody _smart_? And handsome?

Well, in his way.

Scowling, she squeezed her hand into a fist—or tried to. She'd been holding someone's arm and the flesh buckled.

"Ow," Melvin kicked his feet and threw back his head when her thumb pressed into the welt on his arm through the bandage.

"Oh, hush," she told the first-year cruelly, as she finished up as uncompassionately as she had before.

"Merlin—can I go now?"

"No, you may _not_."

"But, I've got homework—"

"Madam Pomfrey's orders, not mine. By the way, Professor Sprout told me to tell you that you have detention for the next three Saturdays, helping Filch with the shipments of dragon's dung. Next time maybe you'll think about that before you go breaking and entering on restricted school property."

He opened his mouth to argue, but she was already finished with the conversation and turned away.

"You must be careful, as I said, Harry," she pulled the curtain around Melvin and headed toward the sixth year, "I overheard Romilda Vane and some others talking about slipping you a love potion in the bathroom… they've all made mail-orders to Wizarding Wheezes, and as much as I hate to admit it, Fred and George's potions are likely effective."

"Don't they screen the mail, now?"

"For dark objects, not love potions…"

"Er, well, why didn't you confiscate them, then?"

"They weren't passing them around in front of me," she insisted quietly as she folded the bandages that Pomfrey had just laundered, and began her rounds administering potions to the few patients who were staying overnight, "They were just discussing _tactics_."

"Tactics?"

"How to get you to take a love potion without knowing, so that you'll offer to bring one of them to Slughorn's party—you know, like spiking your drinks…" his eyebrows shut up to his hairline, "It's tomorrow, the party… so you might want to just ask one of them to get them off your back at least until after its over."

Harry grew a bit pale at that, but looked mostly unconvinced that they would go so far to capture his affections. He didn't take her seriously, as usual. Or maybe he wanted to avoid the subject of Slughorn's party altogether, since it had begun to be quite the sore topic of her.

"You're still not going to go?"

She didn't even both answering the question. As she had told him several times already, she didn't want to go, especially not as a default date. It was the very last thing she wanted; to be surrounded by people who didn't know who she really was—all they cared about was the surface, and even that was growing duller by the moment.

Still, as much as Harry's pleading eyes annoyed her, she wanted to make sure he at least knew she was concerned, "You won't take anything from anyone, right?"

" _Hermione_."

"Well, just be careful, is all I'm asking. Don't drink the punch."

He hid his face in the book, muttering, "Aren't I always careful?"

She scoffed at that and shoved some blankets over the pages, "If you're going to be in here, make yourself useful."

He grumbled but complied, climbing out of the bed, making sure to conceal the book in his bag when it was not in his possession. When he was finished, he began to collect his things, obviously sensing she was going to make him do more chores if he decided to stay.

"I suppose I should head to the tower… coming anytime soon?"

"No," she replied with a sigh, "I've got to fetch some things from Professor Slughorn and then I've got my prefect rounds tonight."

"Right."

Harry seemed to sense she wasn't telling the truth—he'd caught on that she was not where she was supposed to be, most days, after he'd gone looking for her one night and she'd not been where she said she was. He'd tried to pry the truth from her, but she'd been so cool and unaffected by his anger, he'd let it go, albeit rather confusedly.

She watched him go, then sighed, fingers fretting with the linens she was collecting from one of the patients who'd been discharged. Pomfrey found her dazing off into the distance a few moments later, twirling them back and further in her hands. She assessed her with a curious glance, before she took the linens away.

"You're a million miles away, Hermione."

"Sorry."

"Something the matter, my dear?"

"No," she admitted, truthfully, "I think it's just nerves."

"Nerves, dear?"

"Yes, I… well, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried."

"About what, child?"

"Everything… there's a feeling of dread I just can't shake. I haven't slept in two days, it feels like."

The nurse looked concerned, but Hermione assured her she was alright, just weary and overwhelmed.

"Is something the matter?"

"Lots," she admitted, then sighed, "But mostly, I suppose I'm just nervous because Professor Snape said I can go home for Christmas if I like."

"But that's wonderful news, my dear."

Hermione wasn't so convinced—in fact, she was absolutely terrified.

"Oh, my… do you not want to go home?"

"No, it's not that. It's just—"

She floundered for an explanation.

"If Severus was uncertain that you could handle it, he wouldn't allow it."

Hermione huffed a breath, then dropped her head. That was exactly the problem. She didn't want to leave him alone… and—

How could he think she could do it, when she still hadn't completely recovered? Was he just tired of waiting for her to improve, and just relented because… well, just because?

The real question was: would she ever recover? Would she live her life in fear that she might never be able to protect herself again?

Or would she simply have to accept that she would always be half a witch?

"I just worry, is all."

Even besides her own issues, she was worried about _him._ Who would look after him while she was gone?

Not that she did much looking after him, besides from afar.

"You know worrying means you'll suffer twice."

Hermione laughed, but it was hollow. She wasn't concerned about her own suffering.

·

"Potter, Weasley."

"Professor McGonagall," Harry blinked.

"Have you seen Miss Granger?"

Ron's expression turned into a glower and he dropped his head, muttering.

"She was in the infirmary last I saw, Professor," Harry explained.

"Well, she isn't now," McGonagall said with a huff.

"She did say she had errands to run for Professor Slughorn. And then prefect rounds…"

"Prefect rounds?" Their head of house searched her brain, then frowned, "Granger doesn't have prefect rounds tonight."

"She… doesn't?" Harry muttered.

"No, Potter," the witch said with a snappish tone, " _Weasley_ does."

Of course, the redhead had forgotten. He typically used the time to sneak around with Lavender, rather than actually patrol his assigned floors. His ears turned bright red, but he was wise enough not to say anything about that.

Harry backtracked, "I must have misheard her, Professor. Have you checked the library?"

"Yes, Potter. When you see her, if you do, please tell her that I need to see her in my office."

"Of course," Harry said, watching her disappear through the portrait hole with a worried feeling in his body. Somehow, he didn't think McGonagall was going to give up her search. After all, a missing student in these times… well, it could mean anything.

He thought of the worst possibility—was Hermione alright? Was she hurt? What if—

"What are you doing?"

"Getting the Marauder's Map."

"What for?" Ron said.

Harry shot him a look, "You know, Ron, you may have forgotten that Hermione was your friend, but I haven't."

"She's probably just off snogging McClaggen or something. Best to check the broom closets first."

Harry resisted the urge to swat him over the head with the Prince's book and disappeared upstairs.

·

Hermione was exhausted. The Calming Draught, combined with her nightly duel, had helped her sleep—oversleep, actually. She'd arrived late to breakfast.

"Hermione," Harry looked as if he'd been waiting for her and stood when she approached.

"No time, Harry!"

He frowned at her, but she ignored him. She only had enough time grab a muffin and an orange juice before she headed off to the infirmary. Before she could make it to the hospital, McGonagall appeared, like a gargoyle jumping in the path of a devil.

"There you are, Granger."

"Professor McGonagall. I was just on my way to—"

"To my office, actually."

"Er, is everything alright, Professor? If you need to find Harry or Ron, I think they are both in the Common Room."

" _You_ are who I was hoping to find, actually," the witch peered down her nose at her, looking rather uncomfortable, "Now, my office?"

Hermione's eyes flickered, "I have a few errands to run for… Madam Pomfrey."

"Is it an emergency?"

"No…"

"Then the errands must wait."

The witch wrapped her arms around herself, feet planted, "Is it… is it my parents, professor? Are they hurt?"

Minerva felt a pang in her heart—the fact that this was such a common fear among her students made her feel terrible, and helpless.

"No, child. Nothing of the sort. But this is a conversation that can no longer wait."

She followed along behind the matronly witch, twisting the necklace around her neck, pretending to fidget with her wand as she pressed it to the tip of the sickle, wondering if she should call for help. Eventually, she decided to abstain.

It was a surreal experience. When she was seated in front of the witch, she found that she'd never been called to her office, alone, before. Typically, it had been with Harry and Ron, and concerning some unbelievable circumstance…

Such as when Katie Bell had been cursed.

"Is something wrong, Professor?"

Hermione honestly thought she'd been doing… okay. Her exams had been absolutely dismal to perform, but she'd tried not to think about it.

"Yes, Granger, there is. I have some concerns," Professor McGonagall began gently, "About your practical performance in the classroom and your behavior."

"My behavior?"

"Yes, Miss Granger… you've been disappearing, for hours at a time."

"Oh, Professor—"

McGonagall lifted a hand, "I know where you were, Granger."

"Y…yeah?"

"Yes. I spoke with the headmaster and he explained everything to me."

"Every… everything?"

"Yes—I was forced to turn to him, as I had thought you'd been kidnapped. Why didn't you just say you had clearance to go to Hogsmeade?"

"Oh, I—er. Thought you knew?"

"I see. As I should have, but that is neither here nor there. It was wise of you to withhold this information from Potter and Weasley, to prevent them from following after you, but very stupid to do so without letting anyone know... and to go without even an escort, of all things. If you had been hurt, how would anyone have known?"

"Oh, well… er, I must have forgotten. I usually tell Madam Pomfrey."

"Your life isn't worth a few measly supplies from Jigger's that can be easily mail-ordered. Next time, if it is so dire, bring Professor Slughorn with you... he's responsible for all of that, anyway. Unless you're abusing your privileges?"

Hermione opened her mouth, then shook her head.

"Good. From now on, you will not forget, and you will only go when it is absolutely necessary, do you understand?"

"Yes, Professor."

"Now, the matter of your school-work. Have you mastered the spells I assigned over the weekend?"

Hermione grew still, but her face was not as stunned as Minerva had hoped it would be. She shook her head.

"I see… well, Granger, I will put this bluntly: a few of your professors, myself included, have noted that you are performing sub-par spellwork in their courses. I believe we have already had a conversation about this before."

"Yes, I remember."

"Well… what do you have to say?"

"Er… I don't know what to say, Professor. I _am_ trying, but I can't seem to get a grip on the nonverbal incantations."

"Of course, Granger—even I have had trouble," Minerva agreed, "Is there anything I can do to assist you in mastering it?"

"No, no, I don't think so."

The witch seemed to grow pensive, but did not offer an explanation.

"Nonverbal incantations require great focus," McGonagall tried to help her, "Could it be that perhaps you've taken on too much at once?"

"You mean with healing?"

"Yes, with healing, on top of your prefect duties and other personal responsibilities, Hogsmeade escapades notwithstanding."

Hermione shook her head vehemently, "I don't think so, Professor. I dropped Ancient Runes, after all, if you remember."

"Yes, you were very adamant about that."

Hermione refrained from rightly saying 'I told you so'. Instead, she looked at the items on her professor's desk. She was nearly as meticulous as Snape.

The animagus cleared her throat, "This is a very personal question, Granger, and I apologize, but I must ask it… is your wand resisting you?"

"Pardon me?"

"Your wand, Granger… Longbottom expressed concern that its loyalty might play a part in your performance?"

"Neville told you that?"

 _Damn it, Neville. Why are you now of all times so observant?_

"I approached him, Granger, if that's what you're worried about. He seemed to think it might be because he used your wand without permission. You do have a dragon heartstring core, don't you? Those can be tricky—"

"Yes, but—No, I… I don't think that's it, Professor. My wand is fine."

"I would be happy to take a look at it for you."

"That won't be necessary."

McGonagall pursed her lips—she couldn't technically do so without Hermione's permission, if she hadn't done anything wrong—so she changed the subject, "Help me understand, Hermione."

"I told you, Professor—"

"It's not just nonverbals, Hermione. I have eyes. You struggle with basic incantations, too. As a healer in training, you must understand how very dire this could become, if you let it continue…"

The witch opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

The professor waited, then said, "Have you spoken to anyone about what happened at the ministry, Miss Granger?"

Hermione's face scrunched up into suspicion, "Professor, it was only a few spells. I'm _fine_ , truly."

McGonagall's eyes narrowed.

"I do not believe you are, indeed, fine, Miss Granger. You've failed your Charms exam, after all."

"What?"

Hermione was flabbergasted. She'd done as much as she could… and it had warranted at least an acceptable, or almost!

"I… I see."

"You can see now why I think this is highly aberrant behavior for you."

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way, but I don't know what else to tell you."

"Last term," the older witch began abruptly, "You suffered a grave injury, Hermione… you nearly died. And, believe me, while I have never suffered its effects myself, the Imperius Curse has been known to have curious effects on one's psychological well-being. Victims often feel guilty for being unable to fight off the seemingly compulsory urges to comply with their attackers demands. This guilt can lead to clinical depression, which can effect one's ability to use magic, and one's ability to make… good decisions. This is cause for concern to me, that you have not come to terms with your injuries."

"There is nothing to come to terms with, Professor. It was a long time ago."

"Be that as it may," Minerva shook her head, indicating she did not believe that for one moment, "While you are at this school, it is my job to ensure that you make the best decisions, that you are safe and healthy and as happy as is possible at this age in your life. And while I understand that you are angry and frustrated and distracted—I would be worried if you weren't—it is not an acceptable excuse to fall behind."

"I didn't make any excuses. You made excuses for me!"

Minerva sent her a fixed stare, "Miss Granger, help me to understand and I won't have to fill in the blanks."

"Professor, is it so hard to consider that maybe I am having difficulty concentrating, knowing that there is a war going on?"

"No, it is not hard to consider," McGonagall would not take that as an excuse, and Granger was the last person she would expect to hear it from, "But you don't see everyone else letting it hinder them."

The witch huffed, "I am doing the best I can!"

"I know you better than that, Granger. Your best is far from what you have given me this term."

"Well, I can't very well go back and fix it now, can I?"

Minerva paused, maintained her temper despite the blatant disrespect, "It is also natural to feel resentment for others, after what happened to you. But you shouldn't let that resentment obstruct your life—"

The girl interrupted her snappishly, "I don't feel resentment for anyone."

"Not even for the man who cursed you? For those… like him?"

"Not really, no."

"For Harry, for leading you to the ministry?"

Hermione was silent, but shrugged, indifferent.

"For me?"

Hermione felt her heart burn, ashamed that she had pushed at Professor McGonagall. Perhaps she did resent someone—the woman in front of her, for believing her lies so easily, from the very beginning.

And the others, too. Some small part of her had thought that they might notice something was wrong, that they would pry it out of her. But no one had. Not even now, when she hadn't spoken to Ron in weeks, or Ginny. Even Neville had grown accustomed to her silent brooding.

"Why would I resent you?"

"Because I did not prevent what happened to you. Because you were under my care when it happened."

Hermione reminded her, "It was Umbridge whose care I was under, if you remember."

 _Ah, yes… that was one person Granger_ would _blame, besides herself._

Teenagers were such complicated creatures. She didn't doubt that Granger was a bit more complicated than some.

She spoke with an irritable tone, "Professor, it's not your fault, or my fault, or anyone's, save Dolohov's, maybe Umbridge's for not listening to us, for hurting us, and cutting us off from those who actually cared for us, but I can't very well do anything about that now. And while I _do_ appreciate the concern, and agree that I have been struggling, as many of us have been considering what is going on, am I in danger of failing Charms for the term?"

"Well, no… not _yet_ , that is."

The witch nodded, "Then there isn't really a problem here, is there?"

 _Ah, so we're going to play that game, are we?_

"I may have not been able to prevent what happened to you," Minerva said carefully, "But I will not let it obstruct the rest of your life, Granger. I will take any action to ensure you excel—including removing you from your position in the infirmary and restricting you from Hogsmeade… on weekends and any other day of the week."

Hermione's face remained stony, but she seemed to at least understand what her professor had intended. Eventually, she sighed, realizing she had lost this battle as surely as she had the last, "If what you say is true… that this is because of what happened; what do you suggest I do, then, Professor?"

"I cannot make you do it, but I do believe you need to talk to someone, Granger. It will help."

"Talk to you, you mean?"

"If you would like, but it doesn't need to be me… but talk to someone other than Potter and Weasley, for once."

"Fine… anything else?"

Minerva pursed her lips. She wouldn't get off that easy, "Not at this time, no."

Hermione considered it for a long time, but then she nodded, looking disdainfully toward the tapestry that hung above the fireplace. Minerva's keen eyes fixed to her profile, sensing her charge was far away.

"May I go now?"

"I will see you in class this afternoon," the stern witch demanded and allowed her to make her leave. When she was gone, Hermione felt no better than she had before. In fact, she felt infinitely worse… all the progress she made suddenly felt bitter and meaningless, and she found herself wandering the corridors, staring down at the sickle. She should go to Snape, immediately… but she had class, now. And if she was already falling behind, she couldn't risk missing another.

It would have to wait, she supposed. There wasn't much that could be done, anyway.

She would have to tell McGonagall her secret, but not without Snape's blessing, first.

·

Of course, Hermione was already on edge when Ron took it upon himself to make a cruel imitation of her in Transfiguration that afternoon. She tried her hardest to at least make an effort in attempting to turn Harry's eyebrow yellow, even knowing she would not be able to. Naturally, after their conversation that morning, she did try to make up for her inability to perform the spell by answering McGonagall's questions.

When she heard Lavender and Parvati laughing and caught Ron jumping up and down out of the corner of her eye, she found she didn't have the energy to concentrate, any longer.

Nerves shot, the witch ran from the classroom as soon as she was able and headed for the nearest bathroom. She didn't want to bother with Harry—he didn't have a clue what to do in this sort of situation, and even though she could see how disapproving he was of Ron's actions, he hadn't stopped him.

Honestly, sometimes she felt as if he was on her side, but she also could sense that he was playing devil's advocate. If he knew Ronald was being a git, why not tell him so? She'd never hesitated when the roles had been reversed.

"Are you alright, Hermione?"

"Luna? Is that you?"

"Is it the wrackspurts again, isn't it?"

Hermione found herself less annoyed than she might typically have been as she was too busy wiping away her tears before she exited the stall.

"No, just…" she sighed, searching for the right explanation, "Stupid boys."

"An equally daunting creature, I'd say."

She smirked, "Why do I even bother, honestly?"

Luna seemed empathetic, which made Hermione feel guilty, considering she hadn't been kind to her in the past, "I find the best way to deal with the mean ones is to ignore them. You seem like the type who would tell them to shove off, though. I think it works for you better."

"Usually," Hermione's lips twitched, but it was no use—no one had done that for her, this time, "Unfortunately, Ron doesn't take so kindly to that behavior."

"Ron Weasley?" Luna asked, not surprised in the least.

She nodded, then sighed. It was then that she realized she'd left half of her things behind in her hurry to disappear. Remembering her conversation with McGonagall, however, she was not eager to return after her obviously distressed performance.

With a sniffle, she covered her face with her hands. Luna made another attempt to comfort her, and continued to try as she led her out of the loo.

"Hello, Harry. Did you know one of your eyebrows is bright yellow?"

"Er, yeah. Hey, Hermione, you left your things—"

She remembered what Luna had said, and decided she wasn't very happy with Harry at the moment. While he was Ronald's friend, too, it was beginning to hurt her feelings that he wasn't sticking up for her.

"Yes, thanks. I'd better get going…"

"Hermione, wait, I need to talk to—"

She ignored him, and left the two to reconnect, knowing that Harry might find a brain cell and ask Luna to the party.

The fight between her and Ron was honestly getting out of hand, at this point, if she was crying in loos and being comforted by Luna Lovegood (while they'd bonded over the ministry, they had never been very close).

Eventually, she would have to tell him that there was no need for him to flaunt his new relationship, considering she didn't want one with him anyhow. Still, that wasn't why they were fighting… was it? Honestly, she couldn't remember anymore. Whatever it had been, it didn't warrant him being so bloody rude to her.

As she stomped into the tower, the memory of him making fun of her burned in the back of her mind, causing her mood to darken with every step.

"Hey, Granger… you going to Slughorn's party tonight?"

McClaggen had not failed in subtly asking her to attend with him for the past few weeks since she and Ron were _obviously_ not attending together.

"For the fifth time, McClaggen—" she paused in her tirade, pondering him for a moment. At this point, it didn't matter if Ron didn't know she just wanted to be friends or not. It didn't matter if Snape didn't know she existed anymore, as he never would see her as anything more than another burden.

Both had hurt her feelings… and now she wanted to hurt them back—well, at least she could hurt Ronald back.

As she stared at the brute in front of her, his blonde brows lifted to his forehead.

"Yes…" she cleared her throat, "Yes, McClaggen, I'm going to the party tonight."

"Yeah? I thought you had, er, healer duties?"

"No, Madam Pomfrey has given me the night off for the occasion," she admitted.

He grinned, obviously surprised that she hadn't either ignored or insulted him, "Want to head down together, then?"

" _Yes—_ I mean, sure," she answered, perhaps too eagerly the first time. His eyes narrowed at her, but she reached out and touched his arm, inwardly cringing as she did so, "See you tonight, _Cormac_."

"I can't wait… _Hermione_."

When he was gone, she tried very hard not to be annoyed with him.

 _It's not like he's a good person. Don't feel bad._

 _Merlin, Granger, you're blatantly using him to get back at Ronald! You've been spending way too much time with Snape, haven't you?_

 _Not nearly as much as I'd like, or in the manner that I would like either._

She laughed at herself—honestly, she was going mental, she was.

·

Hermione wasted more time than was necessary getting ready. And she was peeved when she found that Ron didn't even bother hanging around in the Common Room with the rest of the Gryffindors who hadn't managed an invite to the Christmas Party. She nearly left without her date, but then she caught a flash of red near the staircase and turned to see her former friend standing there, gape-mouthed, on the second to last step.

She managed to smirk at him, before spinning neatly on her heel to meet the blonde Keeper, "Oh, hello, Cormac."

"Hermione," he said huskily, "You look… smashing."

She resisted the urge to stomp on his instep when he placed a hand on her lower back and leaned in to kiss her. She narrowly managed to turn her cheek just so.

 _Merlin, already?_

She glanced backwards, but Ronald was gone.

 _Good riddance._

Essentially, Cormac had served his purpose, but she allowed him to escort her to the party—all the way to Slughorn's office he droned about his prowess in Quidditch, obviously making several cliché double-entendres as he did. She wasn't _that_ coldhearted, after all, and allowed him to think she was at least sort-of listening by nodding every once in a while.

Besides, he hadn't offered her that much of an excuse to ditch him. Perhaps she would give him a chance to redeem himself, just for principle's sake?

Unfortunately, from the second they joined the party, it did not go as she planned.

For one thing, when she arrived, she knew instantly that Snape was indeed in attendance at the party. It was in the air—his scent, the sound of him, the feeling of his magic. She was so preoccupied trying to find him that McClagggen somehow managed to disappear and reappear with drinks, and had offered her one.

She stared into it, then back at him, horrified when she could not find Ginny or anyone she knew, really, even in her desperate search for Snape.

"So…" Cormac said with a dumb grin on his face, sipping from the punch, which was very obviously spiked with some sort of rum, to Hermione's annoyance. She didn't doubt that Slughorn had put it there, but to be safe, she spit it promptly back when he wasn't looking, then poured it into a nearby plant as soon as she was able, "What sorts of things are you into, Granger?"

"Oh, you know…" she murmured, "Reading."

"Reading, huh?"

"Yes, I am known for that."

"Have you ever heard read Quidditch Through the Ages?"

 _And here we go…_

All subtlety had been lost as soon as he'd put a drink in her hand.

"Look, McClaggen, I don't know if this is going to—"

 _Aha!_

She'd finally found Snape. He was hidden in a dark corner, alone, nursing a full glass and gazing at her with a quirked brow. She met his dark eyes and smiled, beamed actually, to which he seemed rather amused and nodded to her. The fact that he'd even acknowledged her made her heart swell in her chest.

 _Gods, doesn't he look handsome?_

He'd combed his hair back from his face. It looked softer than normal, shinier—so black it was almost blue. Perhaps he'd avoided brewing for the day to keep it clean? And his robes were different. He wore the same type of coat—the one she knew was enchanted, likely to soothe his injuries, but this one was of a finer material, and the buttons were a dark green instead of black. From afar, she admired him rather boldly, smirking as she looked him up and down.

He noticed and narrowed his eyes at her, to which her smile grew wider and she made to step toward him, all memory of their distance forgotten in the heat of the moment. Before she could attempt it, however, someone stepped in the way, and when they had passed, he was gone.

"Oh, bugger."

Confusing her sudden exclamation as intentions for him, Cormac leaned in, blocking all other things from view save his face. He'd caught her off guard, of course, and willfully captured her lips with his while simultaneously running his hands through her hair, attempting to ruffle it beyond repair, it would seem, by how roughly he did so.

When she eventually managed to pry his hands off of her, she was so horrified that she simply glared, then turned around and stomped away.

"Playing hard to get, again, are we, Granger? Don't worry—I may be a Keeper, but I know how to Chase, too."

"I am not a piece of quidditch equipment!" She spun back and slapped him, hard. But not even that deterred him.

"No, no, you're not—obviously not. Jeez, you hit harder than a bloody bludger," he grinned slow, "I didn't know you liked it rough. I can play dirty, if that's what you're into."

"Merlin—Cormac, leave me alone, or so help me—"

When she felt his hand snake across her waist, she resisted the urge to hex him and instead dove into the crowd. Obviously, her only way out of this mess without making a scene would be to disappear. Desperate, she sought out Snape, but he was gone from his perch, disappeared without a trace.

 _Gods, had he seen? Oh, what if—_

 _What? Do you think he'd be jealous of McClaggen? That boy's not nearly half a man as Snape. Besides, why would he care who a little girl he never even liked snogged? He can barely look at you, these days._

She felt someone tailing behind her and dove for the curtains, eager to melt into them and disappear for all eternity. Unfortunately, whoever it was—likely Cormac—followed after her a handful of moments later.

But she had her wand ready and spun, pressing it viciously against—

"Snape?"

" _Muffliato_ ," he murmured, to which she blinked, surprised he would know…

 _Well, of course. He invented it, didn't he?_

He was unfazed by the fact she still had her wand pressed to his throat, or that they were closer to one another than they ever had been. Close enough that she swore she could feel his heartbeat against the hand she had pressed against his chest to steady her wand… or perhaps that was his pulse, transferring from his throat through her wand to her palm?

She looked up at him, searching his face for sign of displeasure—waiting for him to shove her away, but he didn't. And although he glanced down at her wand with a sneer, she could detect a hint of laughter in his eyes.

"Are you… _laughing_ at me?" She hissed, and pressed her wand more firmly against his throat.

"What are you going to do about it, Granger?"

"Light your arse on fire… again," she muttered, tired of being the butt of everyone's jokes. Humiliated, tears filled her eyes. She hated that they appeared, but they did, and she couldn't hide them being so close.

Immediately, she felt Snape's demeanor change. Gone was the light humor that had danced across his dark eyes. The curling of his lips faded into a deeply set frown. She was all the lesser for it.

How could she feel anguish when he'd been so happy? It was a rare occurrence, rarer now, and even at her expense, she welcomed it. And it was then that she realized how deeply she'd fallen—that she was willing to sacrifice her own happiness for his. If she could take it back, she would, humiliation be damned.

"I apologize," he muttered stiffly, "I did not realize you were upset."

He attempted to remove himself, but she pulled him in closer, covering her action by adjusting her wand so that it was pressed against his chest.

"No matter," she admitted, shrugging, "It has little do with you… I've been laughed at far too many times today, is all. Laughed at and groped."

 _"What?"_

She dropped her wand, willing him to leave her alone with her thoughts. To her surprise, however, he reached out and lifted her chin up, forcing him to look at her. When he peered into her eyes, she felt him searching for the fault in what he'd done, a surprising action from such a shamelessly honest man as he. She allowed him to sift through some surface thoughts, from Ron's torture earlier that day, to her failed plan—even her joy at seeing him, and then her surprise kiss and subsequent accosting by McClaggen, to his amused laughter at her obvious distress.

His face darkened with every scene, and immensely more so when she projected the emotions of shock and the desperate need to escape when McClaggen pursued her.

"That was hardly appropriate," was all the professor could manage to say after a heavy, pregnant pause.

 _If only you knew what I thought about you,_ she heard a dark part of her admit. His eyes snapped to hers, and she'd wondered if he'd heard her. A part of her wished he had.

"If I had known, I would not have been so amused to have seen you duck for cover like that, Granger. I'd merely assumed…" he trailed off, "I assumed you had been running from the same thing I was. In a way, I suppose you were, in a much more obvious sense."

"What were you hiding from?"

"Floating mistletoe…" he admitted with a grimace.

"Mistletoe? Oh, gods help me," she muttered, "Wait—who caught you under the mistletoe?"

"Never you mind," he growled, obviously displeased with whoever it was. For some reason, she couldn't help but picture the vampire Sanguini on the other side of the floating sprig.

She giggled, then peered up at him, searching both of his eyes, "You mean, you didn't see him and… me? You weren't laughing at—"

"Of course, I didn't see, Granger. Do you think I find amusement in the obvious sexual assault of my… one of my students?"

Of… of my _what_? What was he going to say before he decided on 'one of my students'?

"No," she answered truthfully, instead.

Before she could continue her thought, he was pulling away. She grabbed a handful of his arm, "Where are you going?"

"To give that artless, gormless oaf McClaggen detention—or hex his bits off, I haven't decided," after a deep inflection, he added, "Both."

She snorted loudly, to which she clapped a hand over her mouth in surprise. Snape peered down his nose at her, still unamused, waiting to be released.

"No, don't leave me here," she whispered, despite knowing no one would hear them, "What if he comes back?"

Snape thought about that for a moment. She hated playing the "damsel in distress", but she was willing to do anything to keep him close to her, hidden behind the curtain, for as long as possible. It was a magic curtain, she was certain. As soon as they were behind it, she had her old Snape back, the one who seemed more comfortable in his skin. The one who met her eye and smirked at her.

Besides, she truly was concerned with what would happen should McClaggen find her there.

"And what about the mistletoe?"

"I've resolved to incinerating it," he admitted smugly.

She nodded, "Sounds lovely. Want help?"

At that, he seemed to relax slightly, but his expression was still grim.

"You should have hexed him all to hell," he muttered toward her.

"I'm not so sure it would have deterred him," she sighed, "It only seemed to egg him on further, actually."

Suddenly, Snape seemed very uncomfortable. There was a murderous look in his eye, and she changed the subject away from McClaggen, "So… what brings you here tonight, anyway, Professor? I thought you detested parties."

He pursed his lips, but looked down at her and answered in a long, bored tone, "Bribery."

"Ah, yes," she giggled, tears long forgotten, "I'd assume it would take as much to get you to attend one of these horrid things."

"I recall you claiming they weren't 'that bad'."

"Well, I lied."

"You are a notoriously bad liar… no wonder I didn't believe you."

"You never do," she retorted.

Her eyes reached up to his, searching the black depths with interest.

"I _wonder_ , you know," he didn't bother asking her what, knowing she would tell him anyway, "What you're thinking, that is—what you're hiding in that brain of yours."

 _Like the key to your blasted Devil's Tears puzzle. Or your heart. Both._

His eyes darkened, instinctively protecting his thoughts, "You and my masters, alike."

She didn't find _that_ amusing, but he didn't seemed bothered by the notion, as he added, "You could learn legilimency, if you wished, and find out."

It took everything she had to contain her gasp, "Really?"

"Yes," he admitted, "In a few years, I do think it would be possible."

Her hopes were instantly dashed. For a moment, she'd completely forgotten...

How was it that he could make her feel whole again?

At her despondence, he grunted, "Be grateful for your progress, Granger. There was a time when it was questionable that you would manage even as less than you do now."

"Of course, you're right," she admitted, then huffed out a breath. Then she remembered, "Professor…"

"Yes?"

"I failed my Charms exam."

He searched her gaze for a long, pregnant moment, before he sighed and lifted hand—almost as if he was going to touch her face. She closed her eyes, anticipating the feeling, but his fingers never made contact.

"Losing one battle does not mean you've lost the war."

"I know, I just… I've never failed an exam."

"Not even to see how it felt?"

Her eyes sprang open and she gaped, "What?"

His lips twitched, "For a Gryffindor, Granger, you aren't very adventurous, are you?"

"Why would you fail a test on purpose?"

He shrugged, "Curiosity."

 _So this is the Half-Blood Prince… the boy who wanted to know what it was like to fail an exam, just to see. The boy who tested volatile potions recipes and changed them, despite the consequences. The boy who—_

"I'm guessing Minerva told you personally?"

Hermione nodded, chewing her lip, "She wasn't happy."

"I should think not. You're the only half-decent sixth year she has."

Hermione knew he was trying to make her laugh, but she didn't have the energy.

"Perhaps…" she wrung her hands, "Should I tell her? Would that make a difference?"

The potions master seemed uncertain, "It could make your life easier, I believe."

"Will it make yours easier?"

"I'm not sure. She will be angry that I've kept this secret from her... angry with the both of us, I assume."

"I know. I don't know why I never told her in the first place…"

"It was a wise decision, at the time, Granger. But now…" he cleared his throat, "We should prepare for a time where I may not be able to assist you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

He pierced her with dark eyes, but did not answer. She felt a dreadful feeling burgeon in her gut.

"What does that mean?"

He was putting his mask in place, but she refused to let him do so. She reached out and grabbed his arm, "Snape—"

"Remove your hands from me, Granger," he hissed towards her, "Are you daft?"

"No," she spat. He wasn't allowed to say something like that and not tell her, "Why wouldn't you be able to help me?"

"Why do you think, girl? _Why_ might I be unable to help you, a muggleborn girl, the friend of the great Harry _Potter_?"

She winced at his words, which were practically spat in her face. Beneath her grip, she could feel his flesh tremble, likely with anger. Ashamed with herself, she squeezed his arm and leaned in close to him. Brazenly, she laid her head against his chest, in a bastardized sort of hug that he did not return.

Didn't he know that Dumbledore would protect him—that he would…

Oh gods.

She clung to him tighter, burying her face in his scent. Gods, she'd dreamed of this for what felt like ages.

"Unhand me, Granger."

"No."

He decided to physically remove her from him, going so far as to push her back slightly. She let him do so. After all, she'd always expected he might push her away. She was so desperate she'd be satisfied with what little contact she had.

"You overstep your bounds, Granger. Ten points from Gryffindor."

She snorted, "As if I care about points anymore."

"Hm," he noted, bowing his head slightly, "I know of other ways to punish you, witchling. Do you really want to test me?"

She shivered… he'd only ever called her that a few times, but he said it quite frequently in her dreams. Once more, her eyes captured his, and she willed him to keep looking at her, to speak to her more—to tell her what he meant by what he'd said.

Was he leaving her? When? Why?

She tried not to think of it, focusing instead on his dark eyes. Gods, she craved the sound of his voice, always, and now she found that she very much liked the closeness of him, the nearness of his scent and warmth. He'd shut her off for weeks and now… now it was as if he'd been drawn to her, magnetized.

A part of her wondered if she should just show him her thoughts, to hell with the consequences—

Eye-contact was broken and he cleared his throat, stepping backward from her. She cringed.

Had he peeked? Did he not like what he had seen?

"Your friends have arrived, Granger."

"Oh," she said, unconcerned.

He always seemed to know when Harry was arriving, and she had no doubt that was no coincidence, "Go on; don't you want to enjoy the party while you can?"

She felt her expression falter. Gods, why was he being so bloody morbid?

"I don't care about parties."

She cared about him. Didn't he see that?

Why did he have to push her away?

Tears were gathering in her eyes. Why was she crying? Maybe because she knew he was right… hadn't she always known this was going to end badly?

His voice was low and brusque, "Then why did you come?"

When she did not budge, he sighed. For a moment, he allowed his eyes to close, revealing a vulnerable expression on his face. She ached to reach out and touch his cheek, to trace the length and curve of his nose… to thumb across the softer flesh of his lips. As she dreamed, his eyes opened and she quickly morphed her expression into one of longing to a frown.

"To hide behind a curtain with you, of course," she replied stubbornly.

"We cannot hide behind curtains forever, I fear, Granger," he admitted, to which she realized he was feeling much of the same anxiety she was, "The show must go on."

He didn't want to return to the party any more than she did, she knew that, but he knew that their absences would be noted. Should they be found here, together, there would be a lot of questions raised.

 _Gods, how I wished we_ could _hide behind this curtain forever… how I wish I didn't have to play this game anymore._

A part of her wondered if he knew how she felt about him. And if he did, was this his kind way of rejecting her?

"I suppose it must," she agreed, "Good night, then, Professor."

"Good night, Miss Granger…"

She hesitated, peering through the curtain to make sure McClaggen wasn't nearby.

"Don't worry about your unseemly date. I shall take care of him, rest assured."

She didn't know what to say to that, and by the time she figured it out, he was already gone. She waited a long moment to disappear after him, wiping stubborn tears from her cheeks, then slipped through the crowd tentatively in search of either Harry or Ginny. Harry found her first, to her chagrin.

"Hermione! _Hermione."_

"Harry, there you are, thank goodness! Hi, Luna!"

"What happened to you?"

Harry was peering closely at her face, suspicious. It was no doubt blotchy from her short bout of crying. Why hadn't she cast that stupid spell to hide them?

"Oh, I've just been—I mean, I've just left, er, Cormac," she waved the thought away, "Under the mistletoe."

She smiled inwardly as she glance above and noticed that a few of them were simmering, having been lit aflame by the ex-potions master, no doubt.

"Serves you right for coming with him," Harry said under his breath.

Hermione knew he didn't know what happened between them, that to say such a thing meant he was condoning her being fondled against her wishes, but she felt instantly hurt.

"You know what, Harry? You're just as much of a git as Ron, sometimes."

She decided she didn't want to bother with him any longer and turned around, heading back into disappear with the crowd.

With a frustrated huff, she decided she was absolutely done with this party. If she couldn't spend it in the company of the one person she actually like—well, with the exception of Ginny, and maybe Luna—then what was the point of staying/

Once in the corridor, she let all the stress roll off of her. Wincing, she removed her shoes and gathered her wits with a few shallow breaths. A part of her knew she should inflect, to calm herself, but she decided: to hell with that, too. She wanted a bath, and a nice, long, uninterrupted cry. The prefects' bathroom would be perfect for that… better yet, the Room of Requirement.

Still, she spun on her bare heel when she heard someone behind her—she wasn't going to be alone in the corridors with McClaggen without her talismans, and she fumbled to find them. Luckily for her, however, it wasn't McClaggen, but… Draco?

She'd recognize that telltale blonde hair anywhere. But the real question was, what was he doing out of bed, if he hadn't been invited to the party, as she'd known he hadn't?

Glancing around, she decided to follow after him. It was easy to do so, considering he seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts… and he didn't seem to be going anywhere, but was pacing outside of Slughorn's office, as if waiting for someone to emerge—or waiting to for the opportune moment to sneak in.

But why wouldn't he have done so already?

 _What are you up to, Malfoy?_

"What are you doing there?"

She froze, thinking she'd been caught, then realized it wasn't she that had been detected. Filch appeared out of nowhere, blocking Malfoy from escape. Intrigued, she waited for Draco's reply, and was shocked when he pulled his wand on the man.

"Leave me alone, you filthy Squib."

"Hex me, Malfoy, and you'll surely be expelled, I guarantee it."

Malfoy seemed to consider this, then shoved his wand into his pocket, just as Filch grabbed him by the scruff of his robes and dragged him not towards his office, but into the party. Of course, Snape, his Head of House, was in there, and he would likely want to see him reprimanded immediately.

Hermione felt sort of bad for Draco. His father was in prison, after all. It obviously wasn't his fault he was as awful as he was, considering how he'd been raised. And he'd grown steadily more and more reserved that year, and looked nearly as ill as she'd been a few months ago. He hardly spoke in class, and all his friends seemed to be ignoring he existed. Ron and Harry seemed to take joy in that, but she didn't. She knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of such treatment.

It wasn't as if she could do anything about it, though. Draco hated her, most of all.

Moments later she was forced to duck at the sight of Snape, who escorted Malfoy down the rest of the corridor and into the very last empty classroom. Naturally, she could not resist in eavesdropping, and followed. When she'd caught up, she crouched down, ear pressed to the keyhole.

"What are you thinking, Draco? After the fiasco with the necklace—"

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Don't play me for the fool, boy. It was I who removed all trace of your magic before the aurors confiscated it from me. You should thank me for that."

Draco's reply was silence. Hermione covered her mouth to hide her gasp.

 _Draco was behind the attack?_

Harry was going to have a field day… if she decided to tell him that was.

Suddenly, she felt a tapping on her arm, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Someone then draped a cloak around her shoulders, and she found herself peering into a pair of bright green eyes. He lifted his fingers to his lips, and gestured towards the keyhole, their argument obviously forgotten in lieu of Snape and Malfoy's.

"… we cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are expelled—"

"I didn't have anything to do with it, alright?"

"I hope you're telling the truth because it was both clumsy and foolish. Already you are suspected in having hand in it."

"For the last time, I didn't do it, okay? Don't look at me like that—I know what you're doing. I'm not stupid."

"Ah… Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching Occlumency, I see. What thoughts are you trying to conceal from your master, Draco?"

"I'm not trying to conceal anything from _him._ I just don't want _you_ butting in!"

Harry and Hermione both strained to hear the rest. Draco and Severus argued. Apparently, Snape had summoned him to his office quite a few times and Draco did not show. But Snape, ever the authoritarian, seemed to be appeasing the young Malfoy, not buckling to actually punish him.

"Listen to me," Snape said, in a voice so low they both had to press their ears to the door, "I am trying to help you. I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco—"

 _The Unbreakable Vow? Snape… and Malfoy's mother? To protect Draco?_

But if he failed, then—

She lifted a hand to cover her mouth, swallowing the cry of despair at the thought.

"Looks like you'll have to break it then, because I don't need your protection! It's my job, he gave it to me, and I'm doing it. I've got a plan and it's going to work, it's just taking a bit longer than I thought it would."

"What is your plan?"

"It's none of your business!"

"If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist you—"

Hermione didn't really pay attention to the rest. It was more of the same: Snape urging Draco to reveal the details of his plan, with the promise that he would assist him. Naturally, _she_ knew what was happening, or was fairly certain she knew…

Snape was trying to glean information from Draco, to give to Dumbledore, or to use to thwart him. Or he was to assist Draco in his task, on Dumbledore's order…

She could tell that Harry was not following the same line of thought that she was. No, he kept sending her furtive glances, as if to say _I told you!_ In his eyes, Draco and Snape had just been confirmed as villains, despite the fact that he'd been told numerous times by her that Snape was a spy.

Obviously, she knew Draco was involved with something dastardly, but without solid proof, what were they to do? Even now, it was all heresay. Besides, Snape… well, she trusted that he had it under control. To intervene might put his own life at risk—

Especially if he'd taken the Unbreakable Vow to protect Malfoy. To break it would mean his death.

Was that what he had meant, then? That he was going to die? Did he plan to prevent Malfoy from succeeding?

 _You mustn't allow that,_ a determined voice urged.

But at what cost?

When the two were long gone—Malfoy stormed towards the dungeons, Snape back to the party—she and Harry lay on the ground, beneath the cloak, peering at each other in shock.

"What is he planning?" Harry mumbled, more to himself than to her.

From the sound of it, whatever he was planning had something to do with Katie Bell. Obviously, the first victim had not been the intended target—and the assassination attempts would only continue.


	28. Inklings

**A/N: I've been fighting with myself over this chapter for... days. I had two ways I thought this story might go, and this was one of them. Both events were going to eventually happen, but I didn't know which would come first: this one, or the one that hasn't happened yet. It will make sense later, lol. Let me know what you think.**

·

Chapter 27  
 _Inklings_

·

Harry and she slipped through the portrait hole together, in silence. To her disappointment, the Common Room was empty. Those who were not at the party had gone to bed early, obviously bitter to not have been invited. Harry and she could talk about what happened somewhat freely, unless the party ended abruptly.

Not that she wanted to talk about it at all, freely or not. She had a very vivid idea of how this conversation was going to go, and was naturally dreading it. But she knew better than to avoid it. Harry lived for this sort of thing: convening in the dead of night after some misadventure. And he wanted to know that she had heard exactly what I had and what her thoughts were.

But any advice she had would fall on deaf ears—hence, her resistance.

"Hermione," he blurted excitedly, "Malfoy and Snape—"

She sent him a disapproving look, "Harry."

"What?"

She rolled her eyes. When he blinked, she made a buzzing sound, pointedly wiggling her fingers around her ears.

"Oh," he met her gaze smugly, then cast, " _Muffliato_."

The sound of it made her flinch. Only an hour ago, Snape had cast the same spell.

Gods, she _physically_ ached to return to the memory: if she had a pensieve, she would disappear into that moment over and over and over. If she could have relived it thousand times in her life, she would not be satisfied.

She longed for more moments like it, where she could press her face into him and disappear into the scented wool, where his eyes were upon her, full of depth and dark humor, and his voice was meant for her and only her. What would it feel like, to hear and feel him whisper in her ear? Would his hands be rough or gentle as they traced her face, or grabbed her shoulders, or her waist?

Would her Snape be patient or impatient? Cruelly passionate or elegantly tender? Both?

 _Neither,_ the cynic in her reminded.

But the dreamer in her was incensed by the singular moment which they had shared. As she fantasized, she realized that one single memory would not be enough for her to survive on. The dreamer craved more; demanded more. Hell, even the cynic was desperate, but she was too afraid of rejection. Too afraid of losing him.

And even still… though she longed for more, for much, much more, she would trade her life if it meant that she could have even half of what she had now, so long as she knew he lived. To hear that she might be without him, forever, made every part of her heart seize with panic. There was no consolation for what he implied. A life without him, well… she feared she might slip into the abyss of the Divide and never return.

Desperately, she could only hope that he at least planned to live. She could deal with separation, with distance, so long as he still breathed. A part of her hoped that what he had implied was not so final as death. There were perhaps worse circumstances, but gods, she needed him to live.

And if he didn't plan to live, then she would do everything she could to ensure she stopped him. Even if that meant helping Draco sodding Malfoy or his father or the dark lord himself.

"I _told_ you, Hermione," Harry suddenly blurted, running his hands through his hair in an anxious, aggravated motion. He seemed torn between being horrified and being pleased… mostly pleased, she imagined. He did love when he was proven right, "I told you!"

"I know, Harry."

"I was right about Malfoy!"

"I never said you weren't."

Oh, Merlin… Harry was going to murder her if he ever found out what she'd done. What she had so stupidly, insufferably done.

 _Fuck_.

She was in love with him. She was in love with Snape, or at least dangerously close to it. When had that happened?

 _Twenty minutes ago, probably._

"And Snape, of course he's involved—and, of course you did say. You _said_ to let it go, that it wasn't worth it," he told her, "Well, we have proof now—"

"No, we don't."

"What are you talking about? Didn't you hear?"

"Of course I did, but honestly, I don't really know what I heard. They didn't say much."

She didn't care about this. Harry wouldn't get it, even if she spent hours explaining it. Even if she told him the truth.

"They said enough—Malfoy is definitely up to something! He admitted it. And Snape's helping him!"

"Well, we always knew that, Harry!" She muttered, "But honestly, when is Malfoy not getting into trouble?"

"Are you serious?" Harry growled at her, "Hermione, come _on._ You were there! You heard him… and Snape, too! He's offering Malfoy his help… and he said 'his master'; this is proof that Malfoy is a Death Eater, just like the slimy git. Why else would Snape help him?"

"It seems to me that he was just saying that to get information. Draco seemed to think the same—"

"Oh, not _that_ again, Hermione," Harry smacked his hands against the arm of the chair, "Don't you even listen to me?"

"I'm listening, Harry."

"Then tell me what I should do!"

She suddenly blurted, "You really just don't get it, do you?"

"What are you talking about?"

She drew in a steady breath, then stood, "Nothing; I don't want to talk about anything right now."

Harry stood, followed her, and took her arm.

"You're just going to ignore it? Hermione, he has to be behind what happened to Katie!"

"What are we supposed to do about it?" she hissed towards him, spinning, "What am I supposed tell you to do about any of this, besides what I've already told you, which is to _let it alone_?"

"Help me—"

"Help you _what,_ Harry?" Harry's green eyes darkened, but she didn't care anymore, "What are you going to do about a handful of veiled words? Tell Dumbledore? It's not like you listen to him—or me, for that matter. What use is asking for help if you don't bloody listen to it?"

Harry opened his mouth, but she had started and she wasn't going to stop.

"And when you don't like what the headmaster says, which will be exactly what I'm telling you, what are you going to do, then, Harry? Are you going to sneak into Snape's office, or the Slytherin dormitory to find your 'proof'? Want me to brew you some more Polyjuice potion? Would you like to be Crabbe, or Goyle this time? Pansy, then?" She knew she should stop. She knew she was headed in a direction where there was no turning back… but she felt as if she'd been trapped in a bottle and now the bottle had cracked and all of her was spilling out, "Or are we just going to storm their Common Room like we did the ministry? Because that worked out so well for you, didn't it?"

They both knew what she had meant before she even said it. Hermione considered letting it linger, letting him feel it, perhaps even rubbing more salt in the wound—but she found a semblance of sanity, and closed her eyes.

After a breath, she opened them again, and pleaded with Harry's hurt, flaring green ones.

"Harry, I'm sorry. I meant—"

His voice was icy, but beneath the surface she could sense that anger boiling, hot and hurt, "I know exactly what you meant, Hermione."

He dropped his hand from her arm, and walked away, his back to her. She floundered with what to say, to apologize—

"No, really, Harry. I shouldn't have said it."

She flinched when he turned around violently. His fists clenched at his sides, he looked tenser than she'd ever seen him. She could see he was trying to control his temper.

It was a first.

"Merlin, Hermione! I'm not…" he sucked in a breath, cleared his expression of anger, "I'm not going to hex you—or fall into a thousand pieces if you bring it up!" he stormed away from her again, towards the hearth, hands stuffed in his pockets, "I know..."

He trailed off. She drifted closer to him, but kept somewhat of a distance between them.

He paced forward, then back, then forward again, "Gods knows it's my fault he's dead."

"Harry, it isn't—"

"Yes, it is," he stopped pacing, both his words and his face taking on a sense of determined finality, "And convincing myself that it's not won't help me learn from my mistake."

Hermione was overwhelmed by this… she'd expected Harry would shout at her, lose his temper, then stomp off—not step back and look at what he'd said, and done, or to actually take her advice and learn from it, rather than run from it.

Merlin, she'd gotten so used to tiptoeing around him, that she hadn't realized that he'd been just as affected by the ministry as she had. He'd lost Sirius, his godfather. And she'd lost her magic.

But as she'd told McGonagall, it wasn't his fault. The blame belonged in the hands of the man who had swindled them—the man who'd taken his parents, the man who'd orchestrated his godfather's death, the man who had hurt and killed so many others. Who threatened Snape's life, always. But how could they fight him? How could they fight someone who was more powerful, smarter, who didn't appear to have any weaknesses—who defied even the most certain of deaths?

By being unafraid of death. Unafraid of loss, of making mistakes… by playing by different rules.

By playing smarter, not harder.

Harry's voice penetrated her thoughts, "I'm sorry about you, too."

Hermione's mind was going a million miles a minute. She was re-evaluating everything she'd ever planned, or ever imagined would happen in the war. She heard what Harry said, but she didn't need him to say it. She knew he was sorry, deep down. But she'd been so blinded by other things, she'd forgotten that he had his own way, just as she had hers.

They all had their differences. Of course, she could go about _this_ —this being helping Snape—Harry's way. With sheer, brute force and a hell of a lot of luck. Or, hell, she could even go about it her way… by exhausting every research option she had.

Or she could actually do something, for once.

"What?" She blinked at Harry, confused. She'd forgotten what they were talking about.

"About what happened," he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. He gazed at her chest, then glanced away, cheeks red, "I know you don't like talking about it, but Merlin, Hermione, I'm sorry. You shouldn't have gotten hurt for me."

"I didn't get hurt for you," she told him, stepping closer, approaching him as she might a wounded animal, "I was there for the same reasons you were. I wanted to help Sirius, too."

"Yes, but if I'd listened to you—"

"I let you win that argument, Harry, because I knew what was at stake, just like you did. It doesn't matter what I said, because I didn't make you listen, so I'm as much at fault as you are. I could have pushed harder, but I didn't," Of course ,that didn't make him feel any better, so she added, "And there's no telling what those Death Eaters might have done to get you there. I'm glad we were there to do what we could, while we could… don't take this the wrong way, but it could have ended far worse for all of us."

Harry seemed to think about that for a long time, before he sighed heavily, collapsing back into the arm chair. She headed towards him, and put a hand on his shoulder. It was taut as stone, and she could feel the weight he carried around with him as she hovered at his side. Foolishly, she'd forgotten how he liked to carry the world on his shoulders, and that, as his friend, it was her job to ease that burden. Even if hers was already pretty crippling.

"You're not going to listen to me, are you?"

"I can't let it go, Hermione. I've tried, really, but—"

"I didn't say let it go completely."

"Yes, but you're going to suggest to let it go as soon as you're done with your speech."

"Alright, fine, I am, so forget the speech. But—Harry, I know you think I don't care. I do… I just—there's not much we can do…"

"I hate this," he shoved his glasses out of the way and squeezed the bridge of his nose, "I hate all of this. I wish I just knew how to end it."

He didn't do well with plotting—no, he wanted to fix things, right away. He wanted to run in and save the day, all action, no plan needed, just instincts. And she wanted the same, honestly. If she could have, she would have already.

But they couldn't win this war like that. Their enemies were growing strength too fast, and they were already powerful to begin with. He needed to accept that they couldn't win every battle; they weren't going to prevent every death. The world was only going to keep darkening. It was all just going to keep getting harder, more complex…

Luckily, he had her: she did so love puzzles. And she was more flexible than anyone gave her credit for.

Not every terrible action was done in malice.

"We'll figure it all out, Harry."

She slunk into the chair with him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He rested his head against her shoulder, sighed.

"You mean, you'll figure it out, and then you'll tell me?"

"Well, that's how it will probably go."

Harry laughed. It wasn't hollow—it was real.

Eventually, he spoke again, "I know you don't care, but I need to prove that Malfoy is a Death Eater."

She didn't know how to explain to him that it didn't matter anymore if he was or wasn't. But Harry needed to feel like he was doing something, anything, to help. If that meant sniffing after Draco, then so be it.

"Well, since I know you're going to keep an eye on him, anyway," Hermione told him, "I'm going to ask that you just don't be obvious about it, Harry. If he thinks you're onto him—"

"I know. I know… and I'm going to talk to Dumbledore, and Mr. Weasley, and Remus, about Snape. But you're right; they're just going to take his side."

"Don't you ever wonder why that is?"

"Of course I do—and it never makes sense."

It didn't really. She still had no idea why he did what he did. In her eyes, it would be much easier for him to follow the dark lord. He would have an easier life, wouldn't he? If he could stand being tortured and torturing…

She wished she could tell Harry that he was good; that he didn't like being a Death Eater. That he was doing this for the same reasons as Harry was. That he had saved her life. That he had to make choices that Harry would never fathom having to make.

But she couldn't betray Snape's trust, and honestly, she wasn't certain Harry was capable of protecting the information from Voldemort.

"You should sleep," she told him, before untangling herself from his lap and helping him to his feet, "We've got an early morning tomorrow."

"I'll try, but…" he seemed to grow pensive for a moment, and his emerald eyes drew over her face for a long time.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said, "You just look… strange, is all. Was McClaggen that bad of a snog, or are you really just fed up with me completely?"

She punched him—hard—in the arm.

"Don't bring McClaggen up—ever again. We're going to pretend like that never, ever happened."

"Alright, alright…" he rubbed his arm, "Merlin, you don't even need a wand at all to rough a bloke up, do you?"

"No," she tossed at his back, "And don't you forget it, Harry James Potter."

He laughed. But then his green eyes turned serious again and he fixed her with a penetrating look, "Hermione… you do know I'm here for you—to talk."

"I know that, Harry."

"I've tried giving you space. I thought that's what you wanted…" he muttered, "But I am here."

She could tell he was holding back a question for her. He was curious about something, but afraid to ask. Knowing him, Harry was going to hit some nail on the head, and she wasn't quite ready to either a, tell him the truth, or b, lie to his face.

He was going to ask it, "There's been something else I've been meaning to talk to you about—"

Just then, the portrait hole swung open, and several Gryffindors fell into the Common Room with great, roaring laughter. Ginny was among them, but she was hardly laughing. She yanked away from a snorting Dean and stormed past them both. Hermione watched Harry watch her, and she wondered if that was how pitiful she looked watching Snape, from afar.

"Some other time…" she told him.

He nodded—suddenly, he seemed to have forgotten all about everything else.

 _Love can do that, can't it?_

"Goodnight, Harry."

He searched her eyes for a moment, likely having forgotten she was even there, "Goodnight."

When she was certain he was in his dormitory—for good—she turned and headed for the portrait hole. To her surprise, Cormac actually flinched when she approached, even in his drunkenness. She avoided his gaze as she stepped over them, and made sure no one was following her before she trekked towards the other end of the seventh floor.

In a few hours' time, she would be heading home, to her parents, but first…

First, she needed to speak with Albus Dumbledore.

·

"Bloody fucking…"

Severus had long since scourgified Cormac McClaggen's vomit from his shoes, but the stench was still lingering in his nose. He hadn't intended or anticipated that reaction, but he supposed it was his own fault. Perhaps he had been overly zealous in his attempt to give the boy more than his fair share of detentions… but it was a small consequence to ensure Granger's peace of mind that he would not go after her again.

A new, roiling sense of hatred burned in his belly for the twit. McClaggen's desire angered him, immensely. It wasn't that he didn't think it founded, because he knew Granger was… desirable; it was the fact that McClaggen seemed to be more concerned with the fact that Granger was _easy_ rather than beautiful. Sure, he acknowledged the fact that she had nice skin and wild "sex" hair and big, beautiful eyes… and her body was "tight", whatever that meant—but the teenager was looking for a quick shag, and from what he'd heard in the papers, Granger easily spread her legs for quidditch stars.

The Gryffindor twit would be lucky to have fingers left to catch Quaffles by the time Severus was through with him. He was luckier still to have a prick.

Long fingers rubbed at his temples, willing the lewd images McClaggen he'd plucked from his thoughts to quit playing on repeat in his brain. At this point, they were making him physically ill, or perhaps that was the vomit smell, again.

He breathed in deep, controlling the nausea, and sought different images to distract him. Of course, she was there, but she wasn't naked or highly uncharacterized, but dressed finely, with her hair twisted away from her face, yet half-spilling over her shoulders in tight, riotous spirals. Her liquid eyes were looking at him, more open as they ever had been, as if desperate for him to see all of her secrets, and her lips were curved in a smile, a smile spared just for him.

And her Song, that blasted melody, so sweet and alluring, like a siren's, was loud and calling to him—begging him to…

But that wasn't possible. Was he going mad… or was Granger—?

She'd hugged him, too. Buried herself into him, rather. It had taken everything he had to resist turning her around and pressing her against the wall, plundering her mouth with his, to Claim her. It had been even harder when she'd become overly distraught at the thought that he would not be able to aid her much longer. Could she care that much about him, that she would cry over the loss?

 _Of course, she would care. How else would she recover, without you? Don't kid yourself, Severus. It isn't like_ that.

But that was a lie he told himself, to keep him from seeing the truth. He ignored the warnings and delved back into the memory, and wondered, wondered if it was possible—

 _Stop this, Severus. Stop this, at once._

But the damage was already done. He'd had the first taste of hope—and there was no going back. He knew now, and he could not unknow it.

It was bittersweet, of course. Yes, there was the possibility… that even without the Song, Miss Granger could—but it didn't matter. How could it matter? After all, after tonight, he knew what his answer to Dumbledore would be. He knew what he had to do.

The dark wizard slid to the floor, clutching a bottle of firewhisky to his trembling, angry mouth. At least he had this single moment to last him in the darkness that was to come, because, in the morning, he would go to Albus, and agree to kill him. And there would be no room in Granger's life for a murderer Death Eater, and no room in his soul for grief over another witch, besides the one whose death he had already caused. He would not lead her to the darkness with him, even if it killed him... or killed her magic.

·

"Miss Granger, what an… unexpected surprise. Are you unwell?"

"No, Headmaster; I didn't wake you, did I?"

"Of course not," She believed him. While she hadn't expected him to be in his office, she'd assumed he had some sort of system in place that alerted him to the arrival of guests and had been prepared to wait. But she hadn't waited at all. He had been in his winged-back chair when she arrived—almost as if he'd been waiting for her, "I admit that sleep is often beyond me."

"Your hand?"

"My dear?"

She gestured towards the shriveled hand that hid behind his desk, "It must trouble you."

"Ah," he shook his head, "It plays a part."

"Is it curable?"

Dumbledore looked over his half-moon glasses, in a motion that she recognized as an attempt to see her eyes clearer—to read her mind. She deflected him, and he refrained from attempting again.

"It's not, is it?"

"What is this about, Miss Granger?"

The young witch took a breath. She was taking a risk here—a huge risk. To alert Dumbledore that she knew about this could go in two different directions. One, he would use it against her, or against Severus. Or two, he would help her.

Maybe there were three options: he might have her killed, or worse, Obliviated.

She swallowed.

"You know, headmaster, of all people to survive the war, I thought it would be you."

He seemed to lean closer to her, interested in what she had to say, at least.

"I think everyone expects you to live forever, or at least they want you to, so they always have someone to turn to, to make the decisions they don't want to make," the thought made him quirk a silver brow, "But… you're dying, aren't you?"

The wizard peered at her closely, eyes clear, face hardly surprised that she'd figured it out.

"The day it happened, I knew. I knew from Professor Snape's reaction. He was beside himself—more distraught than I ever expected to see him. He practically leveled his office… but you probably knew that."

The headmaster inclined his head.

"I bothered to ask him, which was a terrible idea—gods knows he would never tell me what it meant—but when Madam Pomfrey wasn't concerned, it was easy to let it go. I thought… well, if no one's making a fuss, it must not be _that_ serious? But it is serious, isn't it, sir?"

He was silent.

"How long do you have?"

He frowned, "It is hard to say, my dear. Months, perhaps."

She grimaced, saddened for him, "That's why you're telling Harry all of this, isn't it? That's why you're all of a sudden including him in these… missions, whatever it is that you two do up here. If you weren't dying, would he be privy to any of it?"

"Eventually," the old man admitted.

"But you still aren't telling him everything."

Dumbledore leaned back, then nodded.

"Why not?"

"The truth can only be shared with Harry at the most opportune moment… when Lord Voldemort is most vulnerable, or else, I fear he might not be able to protect it from him."

"I see," Hermione fiddled with the hem of her dress. She felt silly wearing it, in front of the headmaster. She felt silly being here at all, "It's bad, isn't it—the secret you're keeping from him?"

"Yes, Miss Granger."

"Will you tell _me_ what it is?"

"Perhaps, but not yet."

She felt her brow furrow, then nodded. Another time, then.

"Does Snape know?"

"He will in good time."

She sighed—well, Merlin. He'd better hope he didn't die before then, taking the great reveal to the grave!

Or would it matter? Did he know about…

 _Of course, he does, Hermione! He knows everything—_

Well, then, there was only one question: was he planning to let Snape die for him—or was he expecting the spy to assist Draco in his assassination?

"I am curious—what brought this on so suddenly, Miss Granger?"

Overwhelmed by her train of thought, she got to the point, "Sir—Harry… Harry overheard something tonight, headmaster."

"Oh?"

"Yes—between Professor Snape and Draco Malfoy. It was bits and pieces… he tried to get me to help him string them together, but I…" the old man nodded, alerting her that he understood without her saying, "He knows that Draco has been given a mission from the dark lord, but not what that mission is."

"What do _you_ think it is, Miss Granger?"

"I think Draco is supposed to kill you."

Dumbledore did not need to affirm it. She knew. Harry wasn't the target… Voldemort was going to kill himself. The only other worthy target at Hogwarts was the headmaster.

"Do you think Draco Malfoy has that kind of malice in him?"

"No," Hermione admitted with a laugh, "He's scared out of his wits. Even I can see that."

"Then why are you here, Miss Granger?"

"Because Professor Snape took an Unbreakable Vow to help him complete his task. And if he fails—"

"He will not fail," the headmaster assured her.

Hermione felt something catch in her throat.

"He won't?"

"No, Miss Granger," his voice was soft, gentle.

"So, he's going to—"

"So far he is resistant," the headmaster admitted. "But eventually, he must agree."

Hermione felt her heart clench. Of course, he wouldn't want to kill him… Dumbledore was perhaps the only person who even saw half of who he was.

Besides her, of course, and even then, he was shrouded in mystery.

She found herself glad, to know that he would not, indeed, die. But was this a worse fate?

"But… the Order. Harry…"

"Will think he is a traitor, but my murder at his hand will secure Tom's trust in him once more, and he will be able to protect the Light from the other side. It is an advantage that Tom will not have."

Hermione felt her hands clench against the chair's arms. She surged forward, despite herself, "There has to be another way."

"There is no better way, Miss Granger."

"There's no one else who could…?"

"Of course, there are several who could," the headmaster murmured, "But then Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape would die senselessly, and Harry would be sorely disadvantaged."

Hermione's mind raced, "What if you lived?"

"Death comes for us all, Miss Granger… it is my wish that my death serve a purpose. I can think of no greater purpose than this."

She inhaled a breath, then expelled it. Naturally, she allowed herself five seconds to accept that this was inevitable, that Snape would have to kill him, if he was to live himself, five more to allow herself to grieve for Dumbledore (which was made easier by the fact that he was willing and ready to die), then another five to convince herself to let it be, to let it go right now, to turn around and leave it at that.

But she couldn't let it be. She _had_ to do this. The answer had been staring her in the face for weeks, months, just as the Prince's book had, and there was no turning from it now. She had the key, she only needed the courage to actually use it.

"What if your murder could serve another purpose, too?"

His blue eyes seemed to peer into hers poignantly, and they were twinkling madly. His lips twitched, and then he said, "What did you have in mind, my dear?"

It was almost as if he'd been waiting for her to say this, for a very long time. She blinked at him, shivered—had she been here before? Had he predicted she would come?

Determinedly, she pulled the book from her bag and laid it before him, turning it around so that he could analyze the diagram.

He didn't even bother looking at it.

Despair curled in her belly as he refused to follow her gaze. She urged for him to look, placing her fingers delicately along the careworn pages, tapping. But he did not look. No, he was too busy staring at her, as if evaluating her very soul.

"Sir, please— _look at it_."

She _needed_ him to do this, to help her to do this. It was the only thing she could do for Snape, before—well, before he sold his soul to the devil, all for Harry's sake.

Gods, she wished she could be there, the day that Harry realized that he'd been on his side from the beginning…

Who would be eating his words, then?

"Miss Granger, I do not need to look. I know what it is."

Her heart clenched. _Gods,_ please, this was the only way! If she couldn't spare Snape from the dark, then she could at least heal him. She could at least spare him pain, and misery. She could at least give him respite while he slipped deeper into the snake's den for their safety. And she would do it a hundred times, a thousand, with or without Dumbledore, even if it cost her every last drop of magic she had—even if it was her body she had to sacrifice.

Even if he bloody forbade her from it.

She was crying, now, and the headmaster was looking at her, so closely she felt her soul was bared before him.

"You care about him deeply, don't you?"

She choked out a sob, then nodded, furiously.

"Please, sir… please help him."

"He will never agree to it."

She swiped her tears away and practically growled, "Who said he had to agree to anything?"

At that, the headmaster chuckled.

She snapped her head up, eyes dark, mouth snarling, "How dare you laugh? How dare you sit here, in your ivory tower, satisfied with _this…_ plan, which benefits everyone but him! Have you no decency? Do you think he wants to kill you? He would rather die, and you know it!"

"What does it matter, Miss Granger? He is a Death Eater."

"Was."

"The Dark Mark is forever."

"That's thestral shite!" she reached for the book, but he deflected her, "You _cod!_ He is no more a Death Eater than I am…" she didn't know how she knew it, but she did. He was good, at his core, "And he actually cares for you, do you know that? He respects you—which is more than I could ever hope for. And you know what? He deserves better than you—"

The headmaster interrupted her tirade with a chuckle, and then he said, "Lucky for him that he has you, instead."

Hermione choked down a curse and shook her head, "What are you talking about?"

The old wizard stroked his beard, lips twitching, eyes twinkling— _bastard_ , she thought—and then he did the strangest thing. He took the book, and turned it toward her, then tapped his wand on the diagram. She watched as it shimmered, and then the pages were flipping backward until she could see… scribbled in the top corner of the cover was the initials: A.P.W.B.D. They refracted in the light, then disappeared again as his spell died.

He'd hidden the fact that it was his, but it was one of the books she'd found in the Restricted Sections, one that she hadn't thought should have been there, but one she'd held onto, besides. The one on ritualistic healing practices… on sacrifices.

Had he meant for her to find it?

"Sir—"

Had he… was this… but—

Why not just bloody give it to her?

"Ah, Miss Granger. You don't really need to ask, do you?" His expression was slightly wounded, "I couldn't expect this of anyone who wasn't willing to take at least the first step… and I wouldn't dare ask it of someone who didn't care for Severus as much as I do—because, indeed, I do care for him, as I would a son. I admit, we have had many differences, but he has proven himself more loyal than anyone. He has made more personal sacrifices to see Voldemort's end than anyone else. Of course, I will help you. Of course, I will, my dear. It is the only thing that I will ever be able to do for him. If I cannot spare his reputation, than at least I can spare him pain."

Stunned, she dropped her head, then sobbed with relief, capturing her face in her hands. She had been so afraid, so afraid that Dumbledore would be the man who she'd feared he might be: the heartless, soulless, unfeeling puppet-master. The man who would ask of Severus for all that he was, until nothing was left, for the sake of the greater good. What was one space in the face of it all?

But he was the leader of the light for a reason; and yes, he was forced to make the hard decisions, in the name of the light, but in the end, he was different from Voldemort, different from Grindelward, in that he wanted the world to be well again, and would do what he could to make the _right_ choices—to help people, Severus Snape among them.

The worth of the one and the worth of the many should not be mutually exclusive. Especially when the one was crucial both to the war effort, and to her heart.

"You're still a cod," she muttered to the headmaster, wiping tears from her face.

He seemed grandly amused at that, and laughed—a belly laugh, one she hadn't heard from him ever in her life. She cherished it, as much as she cherished all of Severus' laughs (the few she had heard) and wondered… had Harry ever heard Dumbledore laugh like this? She would have to share the memory with him one day.

"Oh, Merlin, they must engrave that on my tombstone. Severus would approve," the headmaster dotted the corner of his eyes with the sleeve of his good arm, "Well, my dear, I find that sleep is not so unattainable as it had seemed—there will be many more nights to plot my murder, I assure you… I am not ready to die just yet."

Hermione reached out and took his good hand in both of hers, "Thank you, headmaster. You have no idea…"

"I have an inkling, Miss Granger… and it is I that should be thanking you."

She wasn't so sure; of course, she could do this, whatever it was, if she had her magic. But what if she didn't find it in time?

"A worry for another time," the headmaster reminded her.

She nodded, and stood, "Sleep well, Professor."

"Sweet dreams, Miss Granger."


	29. Visitors

**A/N: Happy Saturday... well, where I live, at least. Even though it's almost over, lol.**

Chapter _28_  
 _Visitors_

"Severus," Albus smiled at his spy, who had stormed into his office with a great flourish of his robes. Despite his determined gait, he looked worse for wear, of course—as if he had been battling with demons all night, "I had thought you would be preparing your students for departure—"

"I'll do it."

The ex-potions master was never one for pleasantries, anyways, but the headmaster did so enjoy annoying him with them. He rubbed his beard, "Do what, Severus?"

"Don't play stupid, Albus," Severus stepped forward and laid both of his palms on the headmaster's desk, his face drawn into a snarling expression of impatience. His eyes were red-rimmed and haunted, "I'll do _it_ … on one condition."

The headmaster wondered if he'd been drinking, again, but decided berating him was likely not in his favor, "Which is…?"

"Minerva will take my place as headmaster, here at Hogwarts," dark eyes trailed across his, daring him to object, "She will serve as my liaison between the Order and the dark lord. I will teach her Occlumency, myself—"

Albus felt for the wizard. Of course, he would want to bargain. He very much wished he could allow Severus even that shred of dignity, but that wasn't how this was going to work.

"No."

The wizard growled and his fingers clenched into fists, one of which he slammed down into the wood. Albus felt his magic bubbling inside his narrow, vibrating frame, threatening to lash out. It was the trait of a wizard so powerful that sometimes his magic got away with him, like a child's. Hence, why he (and secretly, Minerva) had spent so much time in Severus' youth training him to control his emotions. He with Severus' mind and Minerva with his magic.

It was both troubling and somewhat heartwarming that Severus could become so undone at the thought of his death. He wished he could have appreciated the wizard more throughout the time they had had together, but the torch that he was preparing to pass needed to be tended, carefully.

There was much that he needed to accomplish before Severus killed him: uncovering Slughorn's memory of the horcrux, preparing for Harry's missions to hunt for the remaining fragments of Voldemort's soul. He was trying to find as many of them as he could before then, but his time was running short. Then there was the matter of his murder, and when that would happen. He needed time with Miss Granger to prepare for it, but that required that he knew when Malfoy was going to make his move.

"I apologize, Severus. You may have forgotten, but you have always been the one who wished to keep her at arm's length where it concerns your… duties, not me. Of course, you may assist Minerva in further mastering Occlumency, all you like; I admit, however, that I fear it will be a wasted effort… I have no more choice in the matter of who will be headmaster than you do," Severus seemed overwhelmed, but he could not relent, "Do you truly think you will be able to convince Tom to allow her to lead the school?"

Dark, penetrating eyes glared away from him, towards the wall. With the petulance of a child, he said, "There is no telling that the dark lord will gain control of ministry."

"Severus, you, especially, are not that optimistic."

The churlish wizard frowned, deeply, and his clenched hands trembled. He was quickly becoming undone.

Albus continued, despite that fact, "By all means, Severus, include Minerva as much as you like—I will not be there to stop you…" the wizard's expression darkened, "I admit, she could serve you as well as she has me as a Deputy if she were more informed, but I don't know how that helps this situation—only you can serve as my replacement. You are the only Death Eater who Tom can trust with the school, unless you would rather Governor Malfoy take the helm?"

The wizard's mouth curled, but then his posture became hunched. Severus then dropped his head, hiding his features behind dark curtains. He knew that allowing anyone else to lead the school would put everyone at risk, but he was afraid of the responsibility. The Slytherin head of house wasn't Albus; although, the headmaster admitted, he reminded him of himself in many ways, especially at his age. He'd been afraid of taking responsibility, too, of accepting power, especially after the disasters of his youth…

"The public will not allow it…"

"The public will not have a choice."

It wouldn't do to try and convince Severus that the public would hopefully one day come to understand, maybe laud him a hero, "Besides, this office suits you, don't you think?"

"You presume too much," Severus hissed.

"Perhaps," the headmaster admitted, "But if I didn't, who would?"

The shadow of a man broke away for a moment, drifting away. He paced, obviously torn. Albus knew his decision was already made, but he wanted to ensure that his mind would not change, "Even if you are not the one to kill me, Severus, do you really think you will be able to run from what is coming?"

As Severus floundered for an answer, the headmaster merely put his hands together in a steeple and rested his chin against his fingertips, "You must admit that the dark lord questions your loyalty."

"He will always question my loyalty," Severus said hatefully, spit flying from his mouth, "He questions everyone's loyalty."

"You know what I mean, Severus. The need for a spy at Hogwarts will die with me, whether or not that is by your hand or another's, by Draco's, by my own, by Death itself. We need to be one step ahead if we have any hope of surviving… any hope of protecting Harry and his friends. We need you at his right hand."

Severus could argue that Albus need not die, again, but the truth was that it needed to happen. There was no avoiding that this was a blessing in disguise for them both, for the Order, for the world.

There was no better way, and he knew that Severus agreed that that was true, had from the start—he just hadn't wanted to believe it. Of course, Albus appreciated the sentiment. It humbled him to realize that the man did, indeed, care for him, despite all his efforts to appear that it was the opposite.

But he was not a foolish, emotionally driven man, at least not outwardly. He was shrewd and cunning, and regardless of whether he killed him or not, he would need to begin to make arrangements for Potter. For Granger…

He hoped the man would realize what it was that he had in front of him, what it could mean for him. He prayed that he would not turn his back to her, especially not after what they planned for him. To push her away, even to protect her, would be a disservice to himself and to her.

"You have served me well, Severus. Very well. And I know I have asked much from you, and have given you very little in return… but I cannot ask if of anyone else."

Severus appeared as if emotions he so often held at bay were threatening to break free, and indeed, they were. For the first time in years, Albus was privy to them without using Legilimency. They rippled across his face: pain, grief, resentment, agony, sadness.

With a shaky jaw, he turned and braced himself against the stone wall with one, trembling hand. He bowed his head, face hidden in shadow, "I never really had a choice in the matter, did I?"

Albus' gaze seemed saddened, but grateful, that he had finally accepted the task, "You do have a choice, Severus. I have not ever desired to take that from you."

"As if that makes me feel any better," the man snapped, gaining some of his rigor back.

"It is no consolation, I know, but I believe you are making this decision nobly."

"The world will not see it that way."

"When have you ever cared about the world's opinions?"

If there was one thing Albus was worried about, it was this. Of course, he would put precautions in place. But for the first time in a century, he would not be around to ensure his influence in the rebuilding of their world. He could only hope that the right people found their way into power, and that those people would see Severus' actions as what they were: an act of love, not malice… an act of sacrifice, not sin.

"I will never forgive you for this," Severus said, his voice low and thick, "If it weren't Draco—"

Albus lifted a hand, "You will forgive me eventually, Severus."

The dark wizard snorted, but then he gazed up at Albus, uncertain, "How… how long do we—you have?"

Albus watched him with twinkling blue eyes… as much as Severus did not yet understand, he would, eventually. He was doing this for him, and for Harry—and, in a way, for Hermione Granger.

"That all depends on our young assassin."

"I see…" Severus said with a frown.

"I would appreciate it if he was delayed a while longer yet. I have unfinished business with Harry. And there are many things which I must share with you, all in—"

"Good time," his younger counterpart interrupted with a derisive snort, "Honestly, Albus, for a dying man, you would think you would be more forthcoming with such pertinent information."

"Contrary to what you might presume, Severus, I am not so eager to die, just yet."

"Could have fooled me."

"Yes, well… now that we are finally on the same page, perhaps we can come to a plan, of sorts—dependent upon Draco's, of course?"

"I will do what I can," Severus bemused with curved shoulders. Already, the headmaster could see him tucking his thoughts into their dark corners, quelling the emotions he'd let run away from him—putting his mask in place.

Albus knew what "doing what he could" would require of him. It wouldn't be much a holiday for the young spy, but it was a small sacrifice to pay to prepare for what was to come, "Be careful."

The dark wizard bowed, then turned to make his leave.

"Oh, and Severus?"

"Yes?"

He halted, turning his head to glance behind him, giving Albus a partial view of his profiled.

"I know it means little in the grand scheme of things, but… I am grateful for all you have done. I cannot fathom having been without you all these years… and if I could see a better option, I would have gladly taken it to spare you pain and guilt, two things I know you have not been without nearly your entire life."

Severus' profile wavered. Rather than give into the emotions, again, however, he turned his back to Albus.

As he left, the phoenix hummed a song for him, one that was sweet and hopeful and whole, and Albus watched as his entire body loosened. For Severus, the sound of hope was likely a familiar one: familiar and scented of lavender and vanilla.

When it ended, he seemed stronger, less burdened, and he left without another word, with the same determined gait he had worn when he entered.

"Ah, Fawkes, my old friend," he walked over to stroke the bird's plume of feathers, "You will look after him, when I am gone?"

The phoenix fixed him with a disapproving stare, and he knew what the answer would be. Even if he did, Fawkes' presence would be suspicious at Hogwarts, even at Minerva's side. Besides, the bird deserved freedom, after serving him for so long. As did Severus.

"All in good time, hm?"

·

Hermione leaned forward, pressing her forehead to the door. Just like the blanket tucked into her four-poster, the magic of Snape's ward warmed at her touch, caressing her like an old friend might—or a lover. Curious, she lifted her fingers and traced the seams between the wood and the castle. This door led to a place she had never been, and one she did not yet have access: Snape's quarters.

Eyes closed, she turned, despondent. One hand lingered on the door as she was pulled away by some unknown compulsion, only breaking contact when she absolutely could not touch it any longer. In the absence of its touch, she was cold.

It wasn't long before she realized where her feet were headed. The castle seemed to be leading her to its heart. She could feel the lanterns flickering in the direction of the seventh floor; stairs shifted and moved in front of her when they were needed… tapestries lifted to reveal passageways she'd never known were there.

Of course, she could hear so clearly… so, so clearly. The melody left her incensed, consumed, desperate to reach the music that grew louder and louder as she rose higher, as desperate as she had been to enter before. Naturally, there was no way she could be hearing the music so loudly through the strange magic that protected the room, but she did… she _could_ hear it—in her soul, if not with her ears. And it was coming from within, she was sure of it.

She paced, once, twice… thrice, chanting over and over.

 _Please let me see him. Please let me see him. Please let me see him._

Hermione could feel the castle resisting, but not of its own accord. Snape did not want to be bothered, not today… but she couldn't help her curiosity. Driven by it, she grabbed the door handle and tugged, as hard as she could. Eventually, it submitted to her will, and she had slipped inside before it had even opened, squeezing her body through the crack.

Snape didn't realize her presence as quickly as she thought he would. For the first time in a long time, she found she'd caught him in a vulnerable state. She couldn't see him—no, everything was dark… so very dark. But she could hear: it was the same piano which she'd played her own Song. Behind it, there was a trio of strings instruments, and percussion, all which seemed to be following along with the melody in a symphony of notes.

The music— _his_ Song—seemed so subdued, so… poised. But when she closed her eyes, and really listened, she could hear so much pain, so much sadness, that it made something inside of her choke.

There were many emotions strung throughout his soul, his magic, his heart, but the most prominent was a deep-seeded longing; it was so subtle, so ingrained in everything else, as if he had accepted long ago that it would never be satiated.

Tears gathered in her eyes at the sound of it, and she found that she was sinking to the ground, letting the sound wash over her like waves crashing against the sand. It felt good to become enveloped by them, and she wished very much that they would carry her away, to return her to the dark, open sea—a sea the color of his endless eyes, to be cast adrift and left to sink into the deep, forever surrounded.

And when it stopped, she felt the same longing that was the undercurrent of his Song, and opened her eyes. He was standing before her, but his were avoidant, refusing to look at her. His hands, although they did not move against the keys, seemed to tremble. Every inch of him was tense, as if he was holding back a thousand emotions. Of course, she wanted to tell him that he didn't have to hide, not from her, but she didn't know how he would react to such a thing, and so she chose the safer reply: silence.

Eventually, he stood and the instruments vanished, replaced with dueling equipment. She wondered if he intended for them to begin a lesson, but when he started without her, she realized he was releasing his emotions with magic. Did he remember that she was even here? Did he care? Or was she invisible to him once more?

When his actions grew violent, she found herself captivated. He moved with such… controlled purpose. Every jab, flick, and parry was poised, but vicious. Although she feared he would not go easy on her, she gathered her talismans and joined the fight. The specter he'd summoned appeared familiar, but its face was not fixed, as if he couldn't decide who he wanted to blast to smithereens. One moment, it was Harry, or someone who looked just like him, perhaps his father, the next it was a man who she thought shared Snape's nose, then it was Lucius Malfoy, and then—

" _Severrussss_ , _what a pleasant surprise._ "

Gasping, Hermione surged upwards through the dim light of a room that was both familiar and… not. It was strange enough to wake up at three in the afternoon in her childhood bed, especially after falling asleep only a few hours before. Stranger still to wake up sheened in sweat and gasping, stunned at the clear vision of Lord Voldemort before her, his expression anything but pleased.

 _Gods, was this how Harry felt?_

He'd seemed so real. His eyes so red, like rubies, and his face inhuman: lipless, noseless, features smooth and sharply flat like a snake's.

She turned, burying her face in the herby scent of the woolen throw. It was funny that she hadn't unpacked anything else, except for it—not even books. Not even her homework.

Sighing, she sat up, and stretched, trying to blot the vision from her mind.

"Meow?"

"Don't get any ideas," she told Crookshanks as he hopped up onto the bed and curled over the blanket she'd mostly abandoned, "I'll be back."

Her fingers lingered on the wool, even as she stood. Eventually, she had to abandon its touch. She wrapped her arms around herself as she walked down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"Mum?"

"Hermione!" the Muggle turned, surprised to see her daughter, "What's wrong, love?"

"Could I, erm," Hermione blushed slightly, "I was wondering if there was still food—"

"Of course!" Jean seemed hardly ruffled, but added, "I think your father and I might have gone a little overboard. We'll have leftovers for a week, at least."

"That's fine with me," Hermione admitted.

She slid into the chair as her mother fetched the Tupperware, but admitted she felt slightly out of place here, among all of these Muggle appliances. Mostly, however, she felt guilty, for being a right prat. The young witch had spent the first hour at home walking on egg shells. It was ridiculous, of course, to think that just because she left the protection of the castle, that her magic would escape her. And, honestly, getting worked up about it was probably not helping.

Even still, it was as if nothing had changed between her family. Her mother and father were loving, doting, and they had sorely missed her. She came home to two bone-crushing hugs from each parent and a third between all three of them, and was then greeted to an abundance of her favorite foods. She, however, hadn't had an appetite, even at breakfast that morning, and instead picked at her plate, then disappeared to her room for a nap.

"Thanks, Mum," she smiled at her mother, who scrunched her nose at her playfully, "Where's Dad?"

"Oh, he went off to the grocer's. We forgot to get ice cream for tonight. Plain vanilla, with hot fudge and sprinkles."

Hermione felt a pang of guilt, again. Her parents abhorred sweets, but they indulged her for special occasions, "My favorite."

"Yes," her mother hid her grimace, then slid across from Hermione with a cup of tea, "So, darling, tell me everything there is to tell."

"There's not much to say," Hermione murmured.

"You haven't talked much about school in your letters, lately."

"What's there to talk about?"

Jean frowned at her.

Hermione tried to backtrack, "I'm very busy all the time, with… healing."

"I see. And does that make you happy?"

"It does…" she truly did enjoy it, "I'll likely join a healing apprenticeship at St. Mungo's when I graduate."

"Healing is like medical school, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Her mother looked concerned, "That must be very time consuming."

She looked into her mug, "It is."

"But the hospital—it's in London, isn't it?"

She nodded, unsurprised that she would remember such a minute fact from last Christmas.

"So you'll come back home, for a while? Live with us, maybe?"

Hermione considered it… if the war wasn't over by then, she didn't know if she would take the apprenticeship. Granted, she had no idea if her magic would fully recover. At this point, she had the capabilities of a thirteen-year old, but it was more than she could ever hope for. So far, her progress had not stunted.

And she would find some way of gaining it back fully by the end of term.

"Of course," she told her mother, although it made her extremely sad to realize that planning for a future was practically impossible in this day and age. Who was to say the wizarding world in Britain wouldn't collapse from the war, even if Voldemort was defeated?

"That will make us both very happy," her mother laid a hand over hers.

She looked down at seafood stew her mother had made just that morning, "I miss you all the time, you know. If I didn't have to be away—"

"Shh, I know… and I understand, and so does your dad. I am so proud of you, Hermione. We will never not be proud of you."

"I love you, Mum."

"I love you, too, Hermione," her mother leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, "I assume the boys are alright, as well?"

Hermione suddenly frowned, and glanced towards her tea.

"Hermione? They're…"

"Oh, they're fine," she admitted, waving a hand, "Great, actually. Well, Ron is great… I think."

"You think?"

"He's, er, dating someone."

"Oh?" Her mother waited, obviously curious, and, if Hermione could detect, hopeful. It was her own fault, for admitting to her mom (inadvertently), that she fancied the redhead… before.

"Lavender Brown."

"Lavender Brown?" Her mother frowned, "Oh, Hermione…"

"It's alright, really," Hermione actually laughed, "I mean, not really, but it's not what you think."

Her mother seemed unconvinced.

"Honestly, mum, it's not like that. I don't have feelings like that anymore," she urged her mother to see that she was telling the truth, "It's just… we had a fight and we aren't talking."

"But that has nothing to do with the fact that he's dating Lavender Brown?"

"No, it does," Hermione admitted, before she put her temples in her hands, "Oh, gods. Where do I start?"

Her mother laughed, "The beginning."

"Alright. Well, you know how I felt about him. But last term I—"

Hermione felt a strain, a tearing… not inside of her, but on the outside. She felt a tugging of magic and then a rip. Her heart flew into her chest and she reached for her wand, a spell on her lips. One hand reached for a talisman—

"Dobby?"

Unfortunately, the elf had tripped some sort of magical alarm, because the door was flung open.

"Wands up!"

She glanced at Dobby, then at her mother, then at the stony-faced auror who entered. It was a large, intimidating man, one she didn't recognize, and he was approaching her rapidly.

"WANDS UP!"

She lifted it up in the air, but made sure to keep the talisman wrapped in her fist, as well as the wand's handle. Her other hand was free and open. Her mother, beside her, was gaping.

"Hermione, what is the—"

"Dr. Granger, put your hands up."

"What is going _on_?"

"Elf," the wizard barked, "Arms up!"

Dobby trembled and lifted his arms.

"It's me," Hermione muttered, "I'm Hermione—"

"Prove it," the wizard demanded.

"I… I don't know who you are," she muttered, "I don't know what to—"

"Where is the Order safehouse located?"

"As if I would tell—" suddenly, the auror's hair turned color, signaling…

"Grimmauld Place," she blurted, "Number 12!"

The wizard's hair continued to grow and change color, and his face turned… feminine. She shrank in size and her proportions turned from straight to effeminate.

"Tonks, what in the world?" Hermione hissed, glancing worriedly at her mother.

"Someone tripped the wards," the witch admitted, "I've got to do a full sweep."

"It was Dobby," Hermione said with a huff, "He just came to visit me."

"Yes, well…" Tonks glanced at the elf, who was banging his fists against his forehead. Hermione dropped on her knees and grabbed his wrists gently, urging him to stop, "Rules are rules."

"Hermione—what…"

"Tonks?"

Someone else entered, with her father in tow. It was Bill Weasley, and he'd very obviously Confunded her father, as he was gazing around the corridor with a wonderstruck expression.

"Bill," she hissed at him, "What did you do?"

"He was calling the Muggle Authorities," the wizard admitted, "I… panicked."

"That's illegal, you know," Tonks told him with a roll of her eyes, "You could have just summoned the cell-phone. Or tackled him."

"Yes, well," Bill looked guilty enough and ushered her father to the couch, to check on his vitals.

"What did you do to my husband?" Her mother cried, rushing to his side.

Hermione looked at Dobby. The elf looked distressed enough, so she smiled at him, "Oh, Dobby… is everything alright?"

"No, Miss," the elf admitted, "Snapes has left."

"What?" Hermione frowned. It was the middle of the afternoon, and… well, it was nearly Christmas.

"Masters has left the castle…"

"Where has he gone, Dobby?"

"Dobby's old Masters'," the elf murmured to her, his eyes wide and sad. Hermione blinked at him, then leaned back on her haunches, stunned.

"Let me… let me know if—when he comes back."

"Dobby will wait for Masters with Miss, here. Dobby will know when Masters returns to the castle."

"Dobby—"

"Dobby will wait with Miss."

"But Dobby, your duties…"

"Dobby is a free elf. Dobby will wait with Dobby's friend," he told her, "Elder has given approval, and Headmaster Dumblydore knows where Dobby goes."

She frowned at him, but nodded, "You're always welcome in my home, Dobby. Please, relax—"

The elf nodded and set about "relaxing", which consisted of setting to work about deep-cleaning her mother's seemingly pristine kitchen. Hermione, meanwhile, sat kneeling on the floor, her wand and talisman clutched in one hand, her heart pounding in her chest. Of course, she felt powerless… what could she do?

She would have to get used to feeling like this. Snape was leaving her, for good, soon. She would have no way of helping him. No way to heal him or protect him. Unless...

Her eyes flew to the elf. They'd been in this together, from the beginning. And elfin magic was proving to be rather... unpredictably useful.

"Hermione, get your butt over here, _right_ now!"

Wincing, she stood and shuffled towards her mother. The cat, it appeared, was out of the bag. Well, one of them was.


End file.
